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There was nothing for me.

No stronghold veined between clouds
with starry tendrils and
diamond-edged turrets
with tall marble sentries.

The trains hidden in the earth were silent,
unmoving, and empty the pillowed steam
geysering between the rock palaces,
holding up the crawling plates.

Forests sit adamantly; jewel green
mausoleums curling to one verdant
heartbeat into a long
and empty tunnel.

A sheet of red water dropped flowers
on the secret side of a sky gouging mountain,
which close in petal paper hands
behind the nights blue light.

The cryptic clock tower,
a nebulous spike with a swinging tear of steel.
Boundlessly pushed by a faceless wraith
in the highest fire sky.

A fly buzzes an artificial current
against the restless vent.
Keyboards crackle random beats
of perfect and capitalized plastic.

A door chimes and lanyard clicks
against a copier, which groans hot paper
from its hunched back until the cheap and dead
light, pulls it’s shadow away.

There is nothing here for me.

© Patrick W. Marsh, 2013


Today’s featured poem is by Patrick W Marsh from Minnesota. A beatific piece on the drudgery and grind of everyday life, which presents the quandary of the poet stuck in this everyday, 9-5 world and dreaming of something more. Full of suffocating imagery of a world that is dead to the person reciting the tale, which is undoubtedly familiar to many readers. Another piece we are very pleased to host here for your reading pleasure.

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