Empty Inkwell

What writhes in the deep, O sweet beloved
my metronome, and spoken truth
what thoughts cross our paths on a night like this
dementia, and speckled swords of fallen stars
a dark dream follows me, quick to the heart
a hallowed moon, and a haunting memory to pass the time
still words in the dead of night, a still word
four hours until the sun bites the earth i move upon
a dawn of new things
i walk down the street and notice the jars
empty pockets of wealth and remorse
a jar moves into view, then another
in one i find a world unknown, pain
in the other lies the remnants of my youth
red hair appears, running down the brow of the universe
it marks the blood of the ancestor, and the next
the old world and the grateful dead
funny hats and broken bottles
first the house crumbles, then tomorrow
i walk down avenues not meant for my legs
i linger over thoughts of madness
and maddening thought
i walk to the store to buy a few soldiers
death is a luxury, but only when bought

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