A Poem by A. g. Synclair
The mad ones write poems about death,
sparrows, lost youth,
girls. About eternal good
and the blackened eye
of a yellow café door.
She is the pale beauty of rice paper
you will write about her
because you love her
because she is a girl
because you should always write what you know.
You are a mad one
but you have nothing to say about death
so you trace the line of her back
your hand visible through her skin
she is a ghost
she is your air
your sparrow.
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