There is a morning with an icy note
That frowns until all hands efface
Again it’s hard to stay afloat
Not sad? But still a somber place
And sun—conceived; born for us again
to dissolve the binds that hold and plague and
rip and lust away the frost of The Frustrated
Generation; too much! too much of the expectation
and shaming, unwavering against the wavelike blossom
But still a letter at the door
That knocks to bore its way inside
For what? For why a chance at more
Than ways to sit and wait and hide
For that cringing question;
melting and clawing through
a queasy stomach to the throat—
to the forefront and visions—or just the chance to ask:
the ***** and sting that steers
to and from sense.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:47 PM UTC
There is a morning with an icy note
That frowns until all hands efface
Again it’s hard to stay afloat
Not sad? But still a somber place
And sun—conceived; born for us again
to dissolve the binds that hold and plague and
rip and lust away the frost of The Frustrated
Generation; too much! too much of the expectation
and shaming, unwavering against the wavelike blossom
But still a letter at the door
That knocks to bore its way inside
For what? For why a chance at more
Than ways to sit and wait and hide
For that cringing question;
melting and clawing through
a queasy stomach to the throat—
to the forefront and visions—or just the chance to ask:
the ***** and sting that steers
to and from sense.
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