Tomorrow is a delicious Hope
but yesterday is caught in my throat.
It will not be swallowed,
like a stubborn bone
scratching doors in my mind.
What ferments the age so fine?
What is it I cannot chew
tying my tongue in knots?
I bite on threads of sanity,
I lick the lips that repeat the words.
An immortal tablet shines
behind my wishbone,
my grave
the hole I am in...
@Steven Francis poems 1996
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