and so the continually pained
redressed, sawn-off are fingers
to halt the clutch of things
not ours -- pure in the hour of
restlessness, all oblivious/
and no such mechanism as dream when
our tides harbor at shore,
paled and on bent knees wryly
seeking plenitude hours compressed
in uncollected days, in here was uttered
its rapture of light displaying its luminosity
of absence, this is what they said it would
be but did not come to be, seen only
at a distance coming to intimate terms with
pilgrims of shadowed cities bearing no
names. our nakedness to its promise
do so sing, nothing else but move to
its beat, alive are we but not too long,
this interlocutor, for now
we dig our hands in mud and face the sun.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
and so the continually pained
redressed, sawn-off are fingers
to halt the clutch of things
not ours -- pure in the hour of
restlessness, all oblivious/
and no such mechanism as dream when
our tides harbor at shore,
paled and on bent knees wryly
seeking plenitude hours compressed
in uncollected days, in here was uttered
its rapture of light displaying its luminosity
of absence, this is what they said it would
be but did not come to be, seen only
at a distance coming to intimate terms with
pilgrims of shadowed cities bearing no
names. our nakedness to its promise
do so sing, nothing else but move to
its beat, alive are we but not too long,
this interlocutor, for now
we dig our hands in mud and face the sun.
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