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poetry

while taking out the trash

The deep darkness disorients my senses;

   the coldness smells like a deafening silence.

Blind to my hand;

   a familiar touch that seems so unsure.

Knowledge fails me;

   truth re-orients itself to the dark.

 

Is there a voice to embrace me?

   Yes, the smell of it rises to my ears.

The voice is singing its polyphonic solo.

   The language unknown; the melody intoxicating.

Do I participate in this hymn-

   that is coming from beyond and within?

 

But there it slips away;

   I can’t smell the voice.

I am numb.

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About david b. clark

a husband and father || a student of philosophy, theology, history, literature, music, art, computer science

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