The mundane spiritualism

Literature is necromancy. We lone
bipeds sit on the grass like gravestones,
erect but hunching humbly
to the voices of the ground,
its letters dead in narrow beds.
We conjure out of soil sound.
We from voids manufacture enzymes,
from half signs whole symbols,
from rotten Goethe, rhymes.

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~ by Jeremy on May 21, 2013.

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