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8 pm, Sunday


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Peter Spaulding
Original Poetry - Jun 12, 2016

8 pm, Sunday

you're going through this tunnel. it's
the same one you've gone through a
hundred times. the
far end of it is lit up in a gold
ring, where the setting sun strikes
it with liquid, molten
fire.
the days
have streamed and run wild like wild
horses– feral, frothing,
manes alive with brands of flame through all
the moonless nights and the
pitch black of every coronary
eclipse you've suffered
(where you have curled into a ball and
bled helplessly),
where the streaming of their flames has dimmed
to faint nothings; where
the gush of their panting breath has turned to wheezing gasps of tortured
frost as tails of comets
rupturing in ejaculated
bursts from their
mouths (where
you've internalized it all;
where the inferno of life has been
reduced to a searing
coal).
and they've run through the days,
exuberant and stamping, hurling
spit as they charged over spring
hills and sparkling rivers, cascading
over and over into the
endless cycle of joy, terror
morning and midnight.
you're
driving through this tunnel and
on the other side, heaven
has been plastered like bricks of gold
leaf and spilt paint, over a robin
egg sky. you
drive and it pierces the tunnel, you
know it has been coming for
some time now, you've felt the hooves
pounding alongside you, you
know where you're going finally. they've
not lagged, but you've caught up. you're
thundering ahead, can
see the vista; all the previous
midnights have imploded upon them-
selves. ahead is where you've always
been going. it
glows,
she glows, the culmination
of all this is effulgence and even
the frost of past years now
only shines as crystal
always does in the light. now
even the bullet shells glimmer. now
the shadows have ripped their own arms
off. you come through this tunnel
dragging life by its neck
like a ragdoll, trailing rubies as
each drop of its blood falls like a hammer,
emerging into oceans of jade, turquoise,
jasper, and opal kissed by death just
as angels swallow it. the
battle isn't over, it's
just a new war, but
you wear victory on your head like a crown
of gilt roses and ravens' claws. you
can taste it, smell it, eat
it. you've
drank from its heart and know
the smell of it bending
to you, you've grabbed its hips
and spun it with a sound like milk pouring
and revolver clicks.
you bare your teeth in
a grin of knowing; the horses'
eyes are mad; the windowpane
of winter's ice has cracked beneath
its own
weight. behold:
it is yours. keep
driving.
devour the sunset and open
your jaws wide to let everything
after it pour in.
all roads have led
to this.

©ps
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Jun/16/2016, 7:03 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 


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