Saturday 5/06/2006 01:39:00 AM

The movement solves the intention. In every look it lives. Tongue out. Searching. This sterile pantheon. Where gods once dwelt. Now so empty.

Should I be. Alive again. For this I would live. The shudder of the leaf as it is pierces the bark. Surprising the tree yet again.

And at its base the graves of all those fallen before. Martyrs of the wind. As it chases us away from the place where growth matde sense.

With bent ears I tried to explain to myself how it could happen. That change never saw fit to allow for our happiness.

Dead filament in shapely glass. Once lighted. Now dark.

Everything I taught myself, they forced me to learn it again.

Only louder.

And now I know.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.