Jen Juice

I can hear his voice on days like this

like the whisper and the anti-christ

at home

coming through a fine silk resemblance

of myself

inherits my tone and the bottomingless

culture we find when we belong

home grown

and there is nothing

ever known

to that tale

and its home

again

and the meaningless

alone

finding the wrinkle in the tune

to be my knew one…

This entry was posted on January 20, 2010 at 10:07 PM and is filed under Jencerpts.. with tags Creative Him, Poetry, Soft Spots. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.