“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Fits of all-timers disease
You must find it in Here
and protect it when you do.
Fight for it, for now,
if that feels right.
Do not let it wander off...
That should have been enough to know
all we needed
something special left for us-
most certainly we will know it when we see it.
Perhaps other things came first, easier and
stood taller,
in your face,
consuming precious attention, a natural resource
short in so many ways
making us feel we need more,
we feel need and have to have,
what we think we need for others.
Listen, that forgetting feeling,
somethings are slipping,
the way guilt works its oily way
inside to undo forward motion,
or recognized
as the inability to see
likeness anymore
it was lying there
when we passed
over the top,
afraid of depth, holding our breath and
acclimating ourselves,
we forgot what we came in Here for...
Painting by FĂ©lix Vallotton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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