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In the Seam | A Poem by Grant Tarbard


age tells on heroes
their noir iconic
mortality asks
questions, their wounded
fleshy rags trembling

with a honeyed veil
bound in rumours of
the bitter divine.
They immigrate to
that inky sentence,

lover-men to the
silent lonesome bride
shuffle behind the
clouds with leaves weeping
at the constant stars


no visible scars
oak trees surrendering to

the hero with a
broken mask shifts between a
twelve fingered guru

who’s merciful, a
drunken reprobate and a
omega inscribed

girl who clenches when
she drains fine wines, dilettante
tongues and bloody tears

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