Soul Pressed Poetry

Poetry that comes from our soul.

the emperor’s cymbals (5 Sept 2011)

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the body is taut, taut skin
he is waiting for my signal
arms lifted
full length and the emperor’s
cymbals are there, poised,
impending sound

he is waiting for my signal
a nerve taps in my ear

he begins
the sound of creation
the sound of death
tons of tones
and tomes

all matter disappears

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