King of Clubs - The Bronze Age
Was that our Golden Age?
I used to ask myself:
Magnolia-scented days
And sticky nights
That hummed electric
That sometimes would give way
To dawn - a foreign purple light
Approaching sleepless smiles
Our fingers brushing morning dew
But those were also restless times
Of coughs and cries and sputters
Broken oaths and curses made in haste
Days in which our very chests
Would threaten to collapse
Our insides steaming, boiling over
Spirits spilling from our mouths
Our loins
Our fingers
It was no golden age
We realize now
As women and men grown
With healthy loves
With terrible burdens
But chests that hold
Against the world's weight
And fingers that still
- once in a great while -
Brush against the morning dew
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