O, cry morning, sun breaks again
In that history of banalities
Are written, I finished the cigarette
Before the coffee, twirling wind
O, sigh morning as inverted
Could carry me to the rock wall, thinning grey,
Of the house where egos, bruised, seek guidance
The black bird builds a decoy nest
O, shy morning. churlishly answering questions never
Asked before, “nah-uh, nah-uh, nah-uh,”
(A ****** is heard, of most[ly] fowl)
Spoken mostly to the fact:
It is what it is. Acceptance
O, belie morning. builds a brutalist window, round by row
The they that walks whistles low with nebulous intent
To remind itself to forget
Abysm is a stranger in your city streets.
O, blithe morning. Such cringing in place
Of those sleeping hours, parsing the drop-ceiling’s
Calligraphy: kings be draped in robes of flesh
To depose the anarchists in cerebral lands,
O, yes, my morning. a lechery for the heart,
That religion of my given path
Or its surrogate, the lawful rebels
Writing on every city row, so willing but rough,
My guest, O, my morning, such a pity!
Restless and genuflect, the they does not find itself
Swayed by the largess of absence
Craning neck eastward toward the perfect morning,
Ever on the cusp of the perfect twilight.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
O, cry morning, sun breaks again
In that history of banalities
Are written, I finished the cigarette
Before the coffee, twirling wind
O, sigh morning as inverted
Could carry me to the rock wall, thinning grey,
Of the house where egos, bruised, seek guidance
The black bird builds a decoy nest
O, shy morning. churlishly answering questions never
Asked before, “nah-uh, nah-uh, nah-uh,”
(A ****** is heard, of most[ly] fowl)
Spoken mostly to the fact:
It is what it is. Acceptance
O, belie morning. builds a brutalist window, round by row
The they that walks whistles low with nebulous intent
To remind itself to forget
Abysm is a stranger in your city streets.
O, blithe morning. Such cringing in place
Of those sleeping hours, parsing the drop-ceiling’s
Calligraphy: kings be draped in robes of flesh
To depose the anarchists in cerebral lands,
O, yes, my morning. a lechery for the heart,
That religion of my given path
Or its surrogate, the lawful rebels
Writing on every city row, so willing but rough,
My guest, O, my morning, such a pity!
Restless and genuflect, the they does not find itself
Swayed by the largess of absence
Craning neck eastward toward the perfect morning,
Ever on the cusp of the perfect twilight.