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Piper Diggory Apr 2018
‘Why’ yawps and whines in the corridor, dim
lights paving ceilings to greater unkindnesses;
Greater unknowns fester in cigarette smoke,
And always in dwindling moonlight . What do you
Suppose of yourself? Is it to be, or not
Until men in hats set your sad sky aflame?
The sunset stains you, you’re frittered and worn,
Deluged in the spirits of seventeen.
The night unties the laces of school kids
And you lie in your idle sheets of euphoria
To ignore, or simply not to know.
Where did you go
When you said you don’t know, in sheets shrouding school kids
and their shoelaces all soaked with the sap
Of seventeen, sunset coloured in daylight
Beckoned by men in hats asking rudely of
Scathed suppositions and how they might sound
When the moon is seen blushing in thieving late hours  
Catching cigarettes with fading lungs in its glow,
And the greater unknowns which prey on us all;
At the end of poorly lit corridors, asking why.
one I wrote when I turned 18
Piper Diggory Dec 2016
And must I stoop, churn and obscure
To dote on pulchritude so pure?
May I not forgo hours of sleep
And lame ‘tween grasses ever keep
Your vague, arresting countenance, 
My eye unbound from sustenance?

May I not chance all ‘knowledge’ sound?
Is it that Heaven is no ground?
Shan’t hearts dilapidated write
A thing so opulent as might
An august man, whose name’s renowned?
They know not of all I’ve found.

Your brow once mapped a lavish satin,
I long to taste that blaze of Latin!
To have the watchmen of the night
Dash my temple with delight;
A momentary treasured space
For us, the yonder, and the grace.

And as the shards of anguish lie
Stunned and buried in your sky,
My callow eye remains as glazed-
But were its window to be grazed 
By the honest, spartan gleam
Of ancient lights - I’d be redeemed.

Now, know not I of music cherished,
Languages nor tales long perished,
Know not I of piety,
Nor of what, or whence are we;
But all assured wept Niobe -
Here, twinkle bones and necks and cheeks
Like sentinels ‘twixt damning seas;
All heavy with an empty glare,
For none did once their mind make spare - 
But sense they did to you compare.
an old one I wrote when I thought I was Edgar Allan Poe

— The End —