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"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen

Monday, December 8, 2014


From beneath a layer
of black so dark
it could only be pitch,
or ebony
crept the tiniest bits
of something hopeful --
Could it be possible,
after months
of down-turned smiles
which are after all,

What is the lightning
around the edges
of the slate horizon
Was it the dawning
of not only
a new day
but something else
After so much mourning
and desperate dark,
what could this be coming,
what could happen now

But of course,
she knew it all the time...
when you have endured
so much time
stumbling as if blind
in dimness so black
as to be ebon,
as to be soot
What had to follow...
what had to be
the crack under the door,
the flash along the horizon

Her heart swells
as she recognizes
the most lambent
lights of all...

Christmas, only
breaths away
it is indeed
she spend it atop
the highest hill
in the City of Light...
Her eyes grow wide
as the plane sets down,
she's home --

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