Guy Fawkes Day

Guy Fawkes Day


Blow up my heart
and leave its pieces
slowly gathering in bits
protoplasmic slithers
crawling back across the
Reform the shrapnel shards
to unforseen configurations
captured by the phantom pull
of a gravity you do
not know you have.

Hope is dynamite
explodes the past
to ever branching, flowing outward,
starry fingered, curling trails.
Hope is a whisper
to the flying pieces
to settle softly
along the gradient
lines of force
that point in silence
to the future.

Hope is a bomb.
Blow up my heart.


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