Monday, September 22, 2014

How They met Themselves



Every time I ran my hands through my hair,
I felt the sweat, dirt and gravel from between the toes of
my ancestors. Faded, Dark Caesars release the spirits
as they, too, fled to France in search of flowers without
thorny stems that bring droplets of bad memories
with each sprinkle of salt in the water.
Rinsing sugar scrubs that remove dead skin 
like Garra Rufa that pool in Turkish rivers, 
where the current's strength reminds me 
that everyone goes through a time
when they're not strong enough to stand
on their own two feet. 

It doesn't mean they're at the knees
of their rivals: it's the makings of a rebel getting lessons
on survival

And still, I wonder if it's just me:
a half-moon-haired bastard who sacrificed 
everything to give his all to what started as a soliloquy;
but selfless, like cutting ties with my doppelganger
as he's a harbinger of death.  




©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

Poem inspired by Brooke Shaden's, 'Thorns That Flowers Grow;' 
And Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting, 'How They met Themselves.' 
For d'Verse - Poetics

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