“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Bide and bide
Patience was a problem
he was working on
And so: Nothing Doing about it
All's well that ends in a day.
Around the bend danger awaits,
there was no other way out.
Asking about contents and swatches
make a myriad of answers juxtapose and
work without reason.
I still stand-awaiting your reply.
His hyper heart, the others tainted blood, the ill-tuned organs, the laced food, the zombie pills, the (mixed) media/ (missed) messages, the dumb distractions, the deafening volume, the vast emptiness, the toxic air, the yellow water, the rush, the summit, the plummet-----
Do it NOW!
That is-jump-the wait is too great to hold onto for longer than patience holds peace.
Later-it will be too late to learn of love
and its heroic acts that fail to think
before giving up
the weight
was over.
Painting By Gordon Coutts (1869 - 1937) – creator Born in Glasgow, Scotland. Dead in San Francisco, California, United States of America [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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