Struck speak to me
Of your schemes
Of your hollowed out
Strife-sunken honors and loss
Hemorrhaging themselves
Upon the open
Hayfield between
The trees dead
And dormant pendulum
Yellow gold
And white
Waiting to
Shake loose the
Mantle you threw upon
His shouldering doubts
Time-worn and
Tentative out
Upon the saving-grace
Urgency benign;
Always talking I don’t
Want to hear any voices
Any more
Not even yours
Syllables mounting up
To something scything
Through a sky-torn
Ambulance dread
Counting by the
Times fraught with
Scurrying penniless
One place to the next
Now we are beyond
That now we ascend
And expand beyond
Words and doubts
To the next
Seven whatever they
May be.
No comments:
Post a Comment