six months to the day,
of treading along.
like many good things,
an Internet accident.
180 days can be converted
to one of these units:
15,552,000 seconds
259,200 minutes
4320 hours
180 days
25 weeks
(rounded down)
six months here,
a fortune of time,
goodly to behold.
new faces
from new places,
now crowd the heart
that has no shape,
for it expands daily,
making room for
more of you.
your welcome
welcomes more than poems.
ces triestes,
ces chansons de mon cœur,
don de la liberté,
doués pour vous,
dans la célébration de mon
Jour de l'Indépendance
some fingernail torn
from darker memories,
from fears of the future.
others from eyes to paper
ink spilled quickly,
lest the letters,
remain among the
stillborn ashes
hid in the caverns
of the man's mouth.
the ink in the bottle,
that spilt,
gotta be drops of
mixed blood.
by anybody's definition.
perhaps you sense the fearful
truths that lie within,
some yet to be invoked,
unvoiced, unyoked,
for which my concealer
in actuality is a
point-the-way revealer.
all in. good time.
Yet, never met a poem
did not like,
for the man in the beast
is just like {you, man}.
my only excuse for
to having not read
all of yours,
is oft thine stop me hot,
diverting me
to spill some more,
oh child of mine.
convinced still,
is the man,
that the secret
to this poetry racket,
is to never ever stop
laughing at yourself,
loving all the parts of you,
secretly and
secretly, as well,
in the open wide.
so you feed the beast
that devours me,
for restless are the
words that need a home.
someone said to me,
you are one of those
who are
nostalgic for
the future.
restless is the man inside
the beast, restless is the
beast that is the man,
who hates the word I.
With this sole exception.
I thank you.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
six months to the day,
of treading along.
like many good things,
an Internet accident.
180 days can be converted
to one of these units:
15,552,000 seconds
259,200 minutes
4320 hours
180 days
25 weeks
(rounded down)
six months here,
a fortune of time,
goodly to behold.
new faces
from new places,
now crowd the heart
that has no shape,
for it expands daily,
making room for
more of you.
your welcome
welcomes more than poems.
ces triestes,
ces chansons de mon cœur,
don de la liberté,
doués pour vous,
dans la célébration de mon
Jour de l'Indépendance
some fingernail torn
from darker memories,
from fears of the future.
others from eyes to paper
ink spilled quickly,
lest the letters,
remain among the
stillborn ashes
hid in the caverns
of the man's mouth.
the ink in the bottle,
that spilt,
gotta be drops of
mixed blood.
by anybody's definition.
perhaps you sense the fearful
truths that lie within,
some yet to be invoked,
unvoiced, unyoked,
for which my concealer
in actuality is a
point-the-way revealer.
all in. good time.
Yet, never met a poem
did not like,
for the man in the beast
is just like {you, man}.
my only excuse for
to having not read
all of yours,
is oft thine stop me hot,
diverting me
to spill some more,
oh child of mine.
convinced still,
is the man,
that the secret
to this poetry racket,
is to never ever stop
laughing at yourself,
loving all the parts of you,
secretly and
secretly, as well,
in the open wide.
so you feed the beast
that devours me,
for restless are the
words that need a home.
someone said to me,
you are one of those
who are
nostalgic for
the future.
restless is the man inside
the beast, restless is the
beast that is the man,
who hates the word I.
With this sole exception.
I thank you.
Actually, 6 months was yesterday. But I needed time to edit and think. I don't know if the number of reads I have been gifted are quanta timely large, but they are qualitatively so special to me, that i am
humbled down by the gravity forces of affection that lifts me up...
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