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Click herewhenever fire consumes blank canvases and your eyes
blossom across the silence
of syllables of mirrors
in continuous and uncertain reproduction
face to face until infinity
A blade
an insane edge of death
slitting through a nervure in space
where the topography of heaven is phosphorescent
across from the dahlias and the searchlights
Death is a cold thing, a distant well
with the hollow shape of the hand of men
A reservoir
where jealousy leaves incandescent flames
fierce
and illuminating
No water is like it
No wind so cold
as when your eyes are all that is left
and the blade
This is good poetry and you are to be applauded for attempting such a difficult challenge as I failed miserably!
burns away the lower being...the blade carves what is left into the nexus..well said...bluerains