as the
poet on the roof,
‘tis I,
asking you Lord,
would it have soiled
a vast eternal plan,
to throw some seasoned salt,
on mes écrits?
let this soliloquy
make my case,
my summer
soul-on-ice,
hungover from
**the sorrowed sobriety
that stayed, retained,
the sense of loss
that are the mainstays
of my isolated days**
long after I’ve left,
the black velvet of
my screen, and I,
***wonder where poems
come from, ceasing to
wonder, perhaps as simple
as some sweet old critter
being a human whisperer***
**** the czar
and
**** me too.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC
as the
poet on the roof,
‘tis I,
asking you Lord,
would it have soiled
a vast eternal plan,
to throw some seasoned salt,
on mes écrits?
let this soliloquy
make my case,
my summer
soul-on-ice,
hungover from
**the sorrowed sobriety
that stayed, retained,
the sense of loss
that are the mainstays
of my isolated days**
long after I’ve left,
the black velvet of
my screen, and I,
***wonder where poems
come from, ceasing to
wonder, perhaps as simple
as some sweet old critter
being a human whisperer***
**** the czar
and
**** me too.