tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89996387270181478642011-04-22T01:51:20.698+01:00Poetry from the Burning SkyThe Imposternoreply@blogger.comBlogger41100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8999638727018147864.post-80413951159648584492009-01-19T13:38:00.001Z2009-01-19T13:38:36.303ZThe shattered disc<br />Reminiscent of flags of our fathers<br />The dead in neat little rows<br />Screaming at the silence<br />The dusty blade<br />Forgotten, ignored, but<br />Somehow worth fighting over<br />Worth destroying<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8999638727018147864-8041395115964858449?l=impostersyndrome.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>The Imposternoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8999638727018147864.post-49094241604186303182009-01-19T13:35:00.001Z2009-01-19T13:35:34.265ZStill as Standing Stones<br />They part<br />And the tiniest of them emerges<br />The Mermaid bow, drawing Odysseus on<br />They follow like children<br /> Or bodyguards<br />Into the missing day<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8999638727018147864-4909424160418630318?l=impostersyndrome.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>The Imposternoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8999638727018147864.post-24997750817879837502009-01-19T13:33:00.000Z2009-01-19T13:34:39.734ZLurch<br />A breath<br />Close your eyes. <br />Simon says.<br />Women’s black boots disappear through lashes’ shade and then<br />Patient darknessT<br />he smell of old fabric lingers with sweaty clothes<br />The air moves around us in dirty thrusts; dusty, dirty<br />But air.<br />A book turns its pages, crinkly<br />Solid pages, full of words.<br />Proximity.<br />A heavy coated arm adjusts<br />A stray foot gingerly winds its way around the a new position, around the obstacles of closeness<br />A breath<br />A sigh<br />Throats clear, grumbling<br />My own smell rings around my head and soaks into the walls and the floor<br />The mechanical voice of the world relieves<br />Adjustments<br />Lurch<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8999638727018147864-2499775081787983750?l=impostersyndrome.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>The Imposternoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8999638727018147864.post-37241311615873256812009-01-19T13:31:00.000Z2009-01-19T13:33:02.393ZAnd what of death?<br />That hollow stare from eyes as blue as storm clouds<br />Whose patience is infinite,<br />When death is the Absence of existence<br />His touch cold, but so familiar<br />Like asphalt beneath car tires,<br />Beneath helmets Beneath skin<br />Hollow<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8999638727018147864-3724131161587325681?l=impostersyndrome.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>The Imposternoreply@blogger.com0