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OnomaPoems
If a soul must have its night, which it must... how dark it gather, how thick it be...what's lived will tell--to what end? A directionless break of sound, as if fled from silence with a start-- the terrible nausea of having been, and returning to what now is, which will be...no more apparent than the experience of itself, roundly met. How might a personage bear the scorn of what means to dissolve what no longer serves it. What of life that may be deemed short, or long...as if never born-- or born to die to what's never been born. Blind stead, whose dross drapes days in wait of gold.
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Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
Whose Dross Drapes Days
If a soul must have its night, which it must... how dark it gather, how thick it be...what's lived will tell--to what end? A directionless break of sound, as if fled from silence with a start-- the terrible nausea of having been, and returning to what now is, which will be...no more apparent than the experience of itself, roundly met. How might a personage bear the scorn of what means to dissolve what no longer serves it. What of life that may be deemed short, or long...as if never born-- or born to die to what's never been born. Blind stead, whose dross drapes days in wait of gold.
*First of a series of poems.
Onoma
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Onoma
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
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