Your mind

is the sound of a bearclaw trap

on the arm of a hungry raccoon

who reaches in

to get a lump of butter

 

Your heart

is a glimpse of fire

that lusts for the memories

of a grandfather's

ancestral home

 

Your soul

is the scent of flowers

dead for a time

bloated beyond recognition

now a grey shapeless mass

 

you've left your mark

on those who love you best

now you push them away

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Nixes Mate Review, Violet Rising, and The Road Less Travelled, among others.

MARK

Robert Beveridge

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Poetry

        April 2018

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