derivation
beat the editors back with the stick
that rattles the railings of childhood
where were they
when you were there
asking the walls to play your game
the dereliction to laugh an apology
for being what they are
dirt under your fingernails
never the haute couture of distain for the
spittle dust of time’s limed walls
the same walls that fell
bricked in the randomness of the annealed words
that will untie the gordian knot of memory
and thereby rebuild dante’s furnaces
in the heart of a reddening past
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