I sing September brokenhearted. It’s not
that I was in love. I forgot about love. I was in hope (for the longest time). I hoped that the sky would crumble chrysanthemums into my hands. I would take each piece of emerald, make them into a crown of teeth to rest upon and devour my head. I built a scepter of paper and took it in hand. I waved it starboard, shaking silver out of shivers. I hoped that I could mend the growing sounds of failure. I built my bible. Encrusted it, set it aflame. I used to hope for love. But that was oh so long ago. Now I hope for treasure. I gave/ bought into pleasure, gilded my name.
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Peter BurzynskiPeter is a third-year PhD student in and Graduate Assistant Coordinator of Creative Writing-Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. He holds a B.A. from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, a M.F.A. in Poetry from The New School University, and a M.A. in Polish Literature from Columbia University. |