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One Coin

from A Month of Sundays by Epignosis



I see so many fountains
But I have only one coin
To throw and then I’ll go.
The waters will ripple
But after a while
They will be still again.

Imagine that something so small
Could blot out a star
Yet never return what’s been lost to you:
What each tiny breath has been costing you so far.

My hand leaves a fingerprint
A tiny report:
No strength, no grace, no power.
But there is a second hand
That you cannot shake;
It will produce the hour.

And at the end of our dearest dreams,
We’re just a glass cannon symphony.
Yet never return what’s been lost to you
What each tiny breath has been costing you so far.
So far

The youthful mind and childlike eyes
View lofty heights and cloudless skies
The wings fly away so,
And leave the body on the ground.

The days I aim to walk alone
I tread on gravel paths and stone
And fall on my knees
And leave the body on the ground

A fallen pall bearer
A broken repairer
A drowning seafarer
A lost pathfinder
Silent organ grinder
Forgotten reminder
A burning firefighter
A gasless lamplighter
A tuneless songwriter
A cursing holy man
A vacant lifespan
A tardy brilliant plan

Arrived too late to be the voice of reason in your ear;
I fear that to be a voice at all is not enough.
And you may say, “Every day’s the same.”
Who’s to blame when the sunset’s casting shadows the same way?

In the wake of plagiaristic purposelessness for the sake
Of apprehension, I give up the day.
And you will state, “I can’t concentrate.”
Do you relate to the idol that complains about its fate?

My true love I regarded as the thing I never started.
My true love was always tomorrow.

The same mistake that mires you in paralysis is one
I’ve made, but the world that keeps on spinning will not wait.

There used to be a bright-eye kid
Master of the universe
But the toy aisles got smaller and smaller
No way to reverse
No way.

Never meant to sink this far
Never meant to slide so low
The impact changes
It rearranges
Everything we had
If I could have it back
If I could just have it all back

The tide yes will rise
The tide yes will fall
The tide will not hesitate
To swallow you whole

All that’s lost was found
Hold it in your hand
Let me hold your hand

The gutter stays on the ground,
The coin won’t have to.
The mess you made stays on the ground,
But you don’t have to.

My path is a drunken man’s prayer:
Rambling, unclear, but hopeful.
My place is a sober woman’s stare:
Weary, forbidding
But there and lost among the sound of a glass cannon symphony.


from A Month of Sundays, released April 28, 2019


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Epignosis Raeford, North Carolina

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