Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Plucked from the vine and minus all thorns to protect, this heart blooms, arteries threading petal limbs and grabbing for belonging. It doesn’t choose, but wheeling stars and the curve of destiny craft felony ghosts moving this way and that, through and passed, skin absent yet intention reaching deep; pulling, teasing, holding, coaxing, unfurling the tightened bud of need lurking, hiding, kept. Days are repast for death, hors┬ád’oeuvres gnashed by brittle, patient teeth for tomorrow isn’t just the next dusk, it’s a promise for every dusk and at the end, he’s there waiting, belly already full but hunger not sated until every last leaf of faith is devoured, expired breath like a quaff of the finest vintage. And what’s to be made of it all then? When the bones of undoing seize wilted loves, what’s left? Traces of dedication pressed in the pages dusty tomes, keepsake lusts and devotions forgotten to history. Headstones carry faiths, loss, forgiveness and such hopes, such longing and yet it’s cold rock chiseled with hands not immune to purpose, everything’s forgotten. The blossom, the ghosts, the sun and heavens. The purity of affection and the diversions of desires. The efforts and connections, the reach for divinity of soul and flesh; erased by the skeletal touch of time. Every choice weighing like gold on a stem, the bends steal joy until the breaks; alleged value falling to the swallow of earth, the indifference of the future rendering each bliss and pain mute.


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