“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, February 11, 2017
Counting Sleeps: A Bah-lid
Don't I dream anymore?
How to say,
I mean the real you
pixel on a big picture,
just too much macro-clysm
to mouth out, I conceive.
Mostly,
breathing through it, as I
must.
Wanting not of mine,
not that I would
disagree in contentment.
And all of those steps made today,
left right traces
blown away...
Somewhere may we-
someplace, let us-want to
make some thing interesting
since I cannot sleep
under such a new moon.
For now,
I would join you since you too
are going my way...
Painting by Władysław Ślewiński (1896) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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