Saturday, July 10, 2010

72234 a poem


by Daigneault

The scalpel cuts or does it?

No I think it rips.

My soul now torn


I bleed

Not like you think

It ‘s slow

And dry and pain

Your words

I die again


Or walk with folly

The blackbird speaks again

Dillon and Ger

And Lennon

To me

It speaks so still

The bullets

Filth but honest

That scalpel

Held again

As close

As we can go in words