where i go
cuts the loneliest melody
of this inner twilight.
it is where hands cease
to reach for certain things
and ****** only
what is immense in nearness,
and that is
a memory.
it is a pain imagined -
constantly shining light
into its clutched darkness
and releases from its hand,
the birds of dawn - these words;
or gently sways the perennial trees
with the verdure of its spoken
word and its unimpeachable sensation burning through leaves
like the sun's peak biting off
a trace of a leaf's inflorescence,
or that somewhere i,
together in the gathered silence,
fathers an intimation
and comes back after
each toppled song,
to the world and its formless manifests.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
where i go
cuts the loneliest melody
of this inner twilight.
it is where hands cease
to reach for certain things
and ****** only
what is immense in nearness,
and that is
a memory.
it is a pain imagined -
constantly shining light
into its clutched darkness
and releases from its hand,
the birds of dawn - these words;
or gently sways the perennial trees
with the verdure of its spoken
word and its unimpeachable sensation burning through leaves
like the sun's peak biting off
a trace of a leaf's inflorescence,
or that somewhere i,
together in the gathered silence,
fathers an intimation
and comes back after
each toppled song,
to the world and its formless manifests.
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