Rhythm the knife
hacks eternity into Meter,
sharpens Itself into Phrase.
Our Song of the Severed Soul.
One wide-open
mouth sings the bewildering
majesty of Silence.
Signal drowning in the noise.
A ****** of Shrewd
crows peck out the eyes
of an out-of-tune reality.
This Geometry of eclipsed lines.
Free from the bonds
of Melody, liberated
from the Staff, awakened.
My Song the Quiet of Forests
Interstices where no discord
mars the naked Truth,
nor dulls the timbres of Self.
Here shall I shout my ineffable Gladness.
Where the ear of no listener
may its fairness tickle,
nor its Word turn astray.
*The winds of my Flute
blow sweetest.*
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Rhythm the knife
hacks eternity into Meter,
sharpens Itself into Phrase.
Our Song of the Severed Soul.
One wide-open
mouth sings the bewildering
majesty of Silence.
Signal drowning in the noise.
A ****** of Shrewd
crows peck out the eyes
of an out-of-tune reality.
This Geometry of eclipsed lines.
Free from the bonds
of Melody, liberated
from the Staff, awakened.
My Song the Quiet of Forests
Interstices where no discord
mars the naked Truth,
nor dulls the timbres of Self.
Here shall I shout my ineffable Gladness.
Where the ear of no listener
may its fairness tickle,
nor its Word turn astray.
*The winds of my Flute
blow sweetest.*
Request permission to use this poem