What is there to speak of
when identity includes
all things?
Generalities flowing
in breathless currents, drowning
these hollow perceptions
and empty comforts
in wondrous depth --
Who is this "myself" but
attachment to a cage, a cage
that scarcely contains the force
of conviction, the assault
of passion?
Time the river of blood
flows upstream to source
in a pregnant oblivion
obscuring abortive abstractions,
carelessly dreamt.
Something rages,
ever watchful. Whence
comes this terrible Eye? Whither
does it sleep, sparing
its awful gaze
and the hallucinations
of unceasing desire,
But in every bed?
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
What is there to speak of
when identity includes
all things?
Generalities flowing
in breathless currents, drowning
these hollow perceptions
and empty comforts
in wondrous depth --
Who is this "myself" but
attachment to a cage, a cage
that scarcely contains the force
of conviction, the assault
of passion?
Time the river of blood
flows upstream to source
in a pregnant oblivion
obscuring abortive abstractions,
carelessly dreamt.
Something rages,
ever watchful. Whence
comes this terrible Eye? Whither
does it sleep, sparing
its awful gaze
and the hallucinations
of unceasing desire,
But in every bed?
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