18 June 2008

amanda boschetto

amanda boschetto
a sad life

the small puddles of life are
raped by the light
that noon spits out on a
gray day

sun is suicide in these
pale moments
and everything is in vain
in this life

but yet we live on,
counting the darkness with
smudged fingers
and smear the papers with words
and tears,
the poetic way, we believe


trees are the cloying embrace
of suicide and death
they reach heaven at noon
and stir up god's tea bags,

beyond the darkness they roam,
they are the best proof of summer's
sweaty decay,
like a slow razor they cut through
the ground,
they are full of age and their
bark is like skin, blood flows
through the branches, every
vessel stolen by feckless animals

trees make the best self-injury,
dead during winter,
dead to all of us who hope life
is a gift
and during summer they tease
us with hopes of happiness,

but never so perfect like autumn,
everything alive and dead,
too much for me to carry,

this burden of time

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