ars cliché

*not an ars poetica, but close*

If the clichés come, let them.

Sometimes they are the only way to speak,

the huddled mass that chimes low in the throat,

sing hymns to a wrist, what do you worship now, love?

And say, it is you.

Descending dust, deep full thrum of feathers falling,

who will know what I mean, if not in these?

Muffled kneel and ask mercy for the phrases

that mean nothing ‘til they do.

© 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.


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