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Poem: Splendor


after a night of dreaming,
far from the normal screaming,
I like to arise and see,
while sipping a cup of tea,
the bleeding of the morning.

technicolor digital;
black and white words fictional;
vivid, bloody meaningful,
gearing up the vehicle,
I’m awake and still yawning.

there are a million small deaths,
that will never pass the test
to be news forever etched;
far away over the edge
simply gone without warning.

we are all forgettable;
here today dispensable.
how can I make memory
hold dearly to more of me?
the sun continues dawning.

will I exist tomorrow?
like a Michelangelo?
oil on crumbling plaster
great work by a great master;
the real man himself fading.

now all we know is his art
no conception of his heart.
his words, his love, his passion
thrown away; out of fashion;
his life now an old painting.

Michelangelo is gone.
mystical as the mastodon;
remembered as mere treasure.
How Is that any better
than being forgotten?

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