i love thee
poetry.
whose hands, steadfast,
catatonic waters past
end freely in dusk,
carrying me over
life's ferocious waters,
if not death.
whose slender body is
to make love, make fire,
sinking in a leitmotif of
seraphs unknowing sepulchers,
which ails me so in the night
drunk without stars shall i seek
the dharma burning in the bone,
the fanfare of mind berserks
the thorough ablution of
the mind's useless wanderings,
i love thee poetry,
its rescue, its curse,
its waysides - i love them all
nothing but shorter lifelessly,
a brief night ended in the
bat of an eye.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
i love thee
poetry.
whose hands, steadfast,
catatonic waters past
end freely in dusk,
carrying me over
life's ferocious waters,
if not death.
whose slender body is
to make love, make fire,
sinking in a leitmotif of
seraphs unknowing sepulchers,
which ails me so in the night
drunk without stars shall i seek
the dharma burning in the bone,
the fanfare of mind berserks
the thorough ablution of
the mind's useless wanderings,
i love thee poetry,
its rescue, its curse,
its waysides - i love them all
nothing but shorter lifelessly,
a brief night ended in the
bat of an eye.
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