Poetry: Time-Vulnerable


In wisdom, it is the cold steel killer

Or shaman, perhaps a grime-fingered thief,

In theory, a destructive argument.

We believe we can save it, measure it

Capture it—but when our hands spring open

We find empty palms and a short lifeline.

Metastatic disease bred through concept

And obligation, the only cure lies

In oblivion—if we are willing

To gamble on vulnerability.

But since the proven method of escape

Provides time with victory and victim,

I will take that risk and devote my life

To burrowing my soul in your beauty.

©2011 Robert Morrow

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