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The Poetic Stranger
I am the worm in the heart that feeds on death
cocooned in the silk of evening tears;
I am the dormant corm deep in the bitter mire
of every deserted battlefield;
I am the black eagle, storm-divided from my mate
flying an uneven course with bent wings;
I am the rocky outcrop above the vale, the vantage
of lonely height, one misstep from the plunge;
I am the poetic stranger you may pass on the street
whose words you’ll never read.
But my mind is open wide to the page of your need;
my eyes have looked upon your death and seen release;
my heart has been dismantled, so that yours may mend;
my body I have consigned to the trenches,
to the worms’ grim feast,
so that a single creative truth
may emerge from my life’s work
like the carrion butterfly rising from the corpse of history
that knows yet how to fly and shine blue.
© K.L. Clark
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Editor
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