There is, or perhaps was, always,
And forever, quite invariably,
Yet inconsistently, as if sporadically
A thought that I once won over.
Or did I get one over in a thought?
The idea of greatness, un-sought
Never dirtied by the eyes of those
Who want only, horrifically,
Most terribly, quite incomparably,
My inner most
A ponderous place, that I abhor
Fleeing ever quicker,
On feet made of lead.
Perhaps just one look back?
They'll never know,
Until my salt-pillar body they find
In later days.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
There is, or perhaps was, always,
And forever, quite invariably,
Yet inconsistently, as if sporadically
A thought that I once won over.
Or did I get one over in a thought?
The idea of greatness, un-sought
Never dirtied by the eyes of those
Who want only, horrifically,
Most terribly, quite incomparably,
My inner most
A ponderous place, that I abhor
Fleeing ever quicker,
On feet made of lead.
Perhaps just one look back?
They'll never know,
Until my salt-pillar body they find
In later days.
Request permission to use this poem