This Garland





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Published on Aug 4, 2011

Acquiring a garland barbed with love,
tattooing slowly through the night kneading,
and nailing flesh and blood to a dream,
i free up the space between dark and day,
revelation via celestial navigation,
placing fluorescent pain inside,
the walls of dim memory.

Vivid colours blossom into the skin,
and even though removed years later,
after much tear-stained regret and sorrow,
through the new mark they remain,
after all, a scar is still a tattoo.

Unlimited war in a world within,
below the hairs breath battered and bemused;
this corruption contained and constrained by itself,
strikes against the cold love really loveless.

Life's deadline colours closure,
nature the author i was wrong about her,
fluid caffeine-like energy she gives,
then bows out and leaves this stage of mine forever...

Pain can desecrate the flowering heart,
and make it grieve like the widow at a passing,
positioned in the round retarded release of grief,
so sure of the end in so doing elevating death,
falsely flayed upon the flaccid page,
of human understanding.

[c] N. C. Fortune. June/August 2011.


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