without words
and their wondrous servitude,
i would only be
and cease to become.
as in a forest,
i shall then continue to flower
in the sharpness of swan-song.
like a beast dazed
into nothing and its bafflements,
even the triviality of a lone stone
shall vagabond through me
in a thousand days that pull
downward, refusing to reveal themselves and their paradisiacal nuances. their etymologies
star their deaths to a languid crawl towards an empty page.
all words trapped, slurring
in the radiant void, unbecoming of themselves and who i am.
if i am to be without poetry,
my then epiphanies would be scaled down to an epitaph's weight and its proper terrors;
to think that i cannot write anymore, weave anymore these words,
reeks of deathlessness, and i,
communing through the myriad dailiness of things shall exist only to be,
and not become ( as a single star is meaningless in the coruscation of the multitude - a constellation without moniker,
a god rid of sobriquet,
as a carpenter without tools,
orr an army without arsenals)
i am things vaguely not.
god forbid, if i am to be
without poetry,
what will i become, unknowing of
its grave rescue? these marvels
shoot off in the temporal flight
of this splendid fate, and if without words, then this shall only be, still afloat, a wild, directionless flight.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
without words
and their wondrous servitude,
i would only be
and cease to become.
as in a forest,
i shall then continue to flower
in the sharpness of swan-song.
like a beast dazed
into nothing and its bafflements,
even the triviality of a lone stone
shall vagabond through me
in a thousand days that pull
downward, refusing to reveal themselves and their paradisiacal nuances. their etymologies
star their deaths to a languid crawl towards an empty page.
all words trapped, slurring
in the radiant void, unbecoming of themselves and who i am.
if i am to be without poetry,
my then epiphanies would be scaled down to an epitaph's weight and its proper terrors;
to think that i cannot write anymore, weave anymore these words,
reeks of deathlessness, and i,
communing through the myriad dailiness of things shall exist only to be,
and not become ( as a single star is meaningless in the coruscation of the multitude - a constellation without moniker,
a god rid of sobriquet,
as a carpenter without tools,
orr an army without arsenals)
i am things vaguely not.
god forbid, if i am to be
without poetry,
what will i become, unknowing of
its grave rescue? these marvels
shoot off in the temporal flight
of this splendid fate, and if without words, then this shall only be, still afloat, a wild, directionless flight.
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