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I Was an Anvil without Rust


I felt like I was dying, again

Only in passing

I do not dread the day in which the blackness

Will return

Fell through awkward silences as if

I was an anvil

Without rust

Dead writers on the wall

(James, Wilde, Shaw, Twain, Hardy, Emily)

The sun had burnt my pupils lightly

Bill’s sonnet sprouted

You are the grave where buried love has lived

They are there,

As well as I, I think, while staring

Into Mennonites

My black lungs lust for one more

(I will give in, again and again)

13 replies on “I Was an Anvil without Rust”

Thanks for stopping by my blog and deciding to follow. I appreciate it. This was a lovely poem. Look forward to reading more. Cheers.

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