“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, October 28, 2019
Forts
Broken down, the All
was noplace, collectively
rather-scattering
That there is no longer
meaning
there is no there there
no such thing as a moral hunter
there will never be
a thing
that is
wholly itself alone
and shatter-proof.
There was nothing to see
that would help us
recognize entanglement
as a knot to be undone.
Artwork by Salvador Rosa (1615-1673) in Public Domain.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Tres (trace)
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
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...
-
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...
No comments:
Post a Comment