“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label misery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label misery. Show all posts
Friday, April 7, 2017
This grace
There is no such Disgrace.
I do not live inside or choose to
put my dwelling things
away there.
There is Here to one else,
while I cannot touch it with a tip
of glance-on accident
these matters made solid.
Their way does not cross
my own,
or break through my gait.
Thier way becomes unknown
with wind and soft feet.
There is gasping, a vacuous horror
at the senseless flexing to hold nothing,
constricting itself, There,
the worst that would be too atrophied
to rest here.
I do not dwell in Misery.
I do not consider
my self
part of
Disgrace.
Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, (1870) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...