“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Day dreams
The world is flat-after all.
From here on the ledge
of this precipice, crisp
ridges jut through hazy space.
Placed in perch, the pendulum,
humming in wide ether ebbs
across calm chasms float
ascending the abysmal
highs and neaps-
the watcher sleeps, while
I's skip across the surface-
It is good to know,
up-on deeper reflection,
if light were soft,
nightfall would not hurt-
so much as with onus-
we carry dreams, inklings
heavy enough for sinking stars.
In arches,
the moon bounces back,
putting herself away in phases
setting limits on the possibilities
of how far eyes can go in one day.
Photo By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
And then...
Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign, at first...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
No comments:
Post a Comment