Feb 2017
“Would’ve I ever seen such fraudulent impasse?
I cringe; and question thee, herein.”
Maybe in another world,
And time or perhaps when suns be cold;
When we’d again strum a chord
at once; twice probably if you would?
When we’d stay and tread so close
along; with the ever present glimpses,
In between and I’d wish;
And I wish that it rains,
that it blows,
that it seeks,
And I wish the stars fall too;
Glazing upon dawn’s garnish,
Th’path ere one fine morrow:
The sunset passé sky where they belong;
Ages of flattery in words along,
Praises upon chansonettes,
Grace woven; as spoken in clique,
sly humming veils’n smooth seething silk!
Soft, slithery, (sappily) feverishly-
uncouthly adamant; yet so verily
unruly in manners: timely swerves;
Quizzically feasible; unrightly cryptic,
Always; an ineffable coherence.
At what sight;
And I asked, *“what might?”
Fearing when it opens.
(I fear what’s behind when it’s closed.)
The constant rippling of consciousness,
Of brandless catharsis:
“An ever conflagrant condescension
upon one’s thought, insistent.”
And indulge me so; kindly,
To where it would stop:
Unto what such flattery
would entail?
*“And never would I have ever thought,
that you’d enjoy such silent company.”
I cringe; and question thee, herein.”
Maybe in another world,
And time or perhaps when suns be cold;
When we’d again strum a chord
at once; twice probably if you would?
When we’d stay and tread so close
along; with the ever present glimpses,
In between and I’d wish;
And I wish that it rains,
that it blows,
that it seeks,
And I wish the stars fall too;
Glazing upon dawn’s garnish,
Th’path ere one fine morrow:
The sunset passé sky where they belong;
Ages of flattery in words along,
Praises upon chansonettes,
Grace woven; as spoken in clique,
sly humming veils’n smooth seething silk!
Soft, slithery, (sappily) feverishly-
uncouthly adamant; yet so verily
unruly in manners: timely swerves;
Quizzically feasible; unrightly cryptic,
Always; an ineffable coherence.
At what sight;
And I asked, *“what might?”
Fearing when it opens.
(I fear what’s behind when it’s closed.)
The constant rippling of consciousness,
Of brandless catharsis:
“An ever conflagrant condescension
upon one’s thought, insistent.”
And indulge me so; kindly,
To where it would stop:
Unto what such flattery
would entail?
*“And never would I have ever thought,
that you’d enjoy such silent company.”
I regret to not have said enough, but does it matter?
(27/M/Berlin)
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