Earth, earth [Burn, Burn away.]

S. Bigelow

The Fix is in.
I’ve not a chance.
I’ll rot away before I dance.
The Sphinx, she’s there
Upon the hill,
On top of which resides my Will.

I’ll make my way
Much further on,
Until I fail
To greet the gun.

And then I’ll know
That what I said
Was what I’d meant
When all was Bent.

And Bent I am,
Though straight she goes—
Depart from me,
Thy troubled woes.

And speaking now, inside myself
I’ve stifled what had held my wealth
Within the tongs
Upon the hearth,
Where Burning was
My frail Earth.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 17th, 2009 at 9:06 am and is filed under Poetry . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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