these days are like fake days and cumbersome suns.
moons that have no poets to mock
and the thousand and one idiots
who believe something is real.
the plum from an apple tree is another verse
from a silent thing.... a true gift
from a blind Spring
that devastates the Peace of any youth
as broad as a thin
hope.

having been there is precisely where you're at.
you cannot advance save a reason to repeat it.
life is the cruel awesome of the mundane.
and the miraculous
is nothing but an
often facade

that you mean