"becalmed" poems
“Angelica arguta”,
He shows her his wildflowers
“Angelica Susannah”, he says.
And prodded further by her
His heart.
Lingers briefly with the night;
Her affection has power,
But not enough
To keep him
From marching off to fight.
Tristan, son of One Stab,
Brings wildness from the mountains.
Lovely woman from the East,
Fascinated by her,
His passion.
Revels in her bridal bower,
And stops her
Loving any other.
Alfred, eldest son of his father,
Full of rectitude and romance.
Angelica abandoned,
Adrift between the mountains
Becalmed far from the sea.
He takes advantage,
Snatches her soul with riches,
But never captures
Her longing heart.
Years pass and one son gone,
The other lost and mad.
Year of the red grass and
Happiness found
Is felt too soon.
Tristan loves young Isabel,
But Angelica is his doom.
Yet only he survives
The waves that lash her shore,
“Like water in the ice,
She breaks them.”
And in the Spring,
Is gone once more.
Angelica Susannah is buried
Above the box canyon in the meadow
Among the many dead.
Near Samuel’s heart,
The executed Isabel,
And others who follow soon.
Until only Tristan remains,
Left to hunt his nemesis,
The bear inside him.
And dream of one wife lost,
And a lover left behind:
Angelica Susannah
Beside whom he should lie.
He is slain by the bear in Sixty-three,
After forty years of solitude.
And laid to rest in the plot
Between two women he loved,
Isabel, his ingenuous wife
And Susannah, his tragic love.
Do their spirits meet at last
And wander the golden fields,
Or ride out to bathe in the hot springs,
Under the moon of the falling leaves?
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
[From Fragments, The Following...]
... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.
... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth. The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.
... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.
... and that's how the rain gets in.
[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]
What ?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Lie still, sleep becalmed, sufferer with the wound
In the throat, burning and turning. All night afloat
On the silent sea we have heard the sound
That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.
Under the mile off moon we trembled listening
To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound
And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing
The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.
Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,
Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat
For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.
4.2k
Atmosphere pervades this place:
A subtle, spiritual background
So surreal.
Far from haunted manors
Or flashing disco halls.
Soundless surrounds ****** my soul
As I’m serenaded by serenity.
Peaceful plains becalmed:
Punctuated only by gently rustling trees
And the distant twittering of birds.
I cannot feel any force
Except some sublime emanation
Of peace and tranquility.
Satisfaction soothes my mood
As I make the most of these lingering moments.
So good to chill out in the snug
Of my local pub.
Paul Butters
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
dragging forth a smile
i stand before the storm
of teenage angst
set down on worn carpet
we are in the eye
at rest, becalmed
but just for now
soon the winds
will blow and crack
and the seas
will roil and seethe
and from the mouth
all things vile will
spout and spew
and I and my albatross
will rue, having awakened
but I will smile
even as the albatross
whimpers and hides
for my smile
is my defence
against
this incoming
kingtide
of hormonal soap opera
that is this class
of seveteen teenage
pains in my ****
this farce of bed hopping
and sloppy breakups
followed by anguish
and x rated make ups
all played out before me
like reality tv
and I and the albatross
smile and stand
thinking ....
one more semester
then
I am gone from this land.....
My albatross and I ... can take to the sea
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
I go unwilling and unarmed
Recruited by age I lay me down
The medals gleaming on my coat
Mean nothing now, my vessel weak
Hard for my ship to stay afloat
The ocean once sparkling blue
A dingy grey of lowering clouds
Dark and foreboding as a storm
I recall standing proudly on the prow
My crew would not know me now
There are things to accept, things to learn
Time to know my place, take the stern
My orders once barked in strident tone
Now a whisper, not my own
My ship becalmed, canons disarmed
Her flag that once flew with pride
Is still, no wind can stir her, colours bled
I salute and a gust raises her high,
A blood red pennant in a star filled sky
I am not afraid to die
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC
Soothing that we aren't at war
Soothing that the thunderous skies
Show bright quiescent lightening flash
In battle field where no man dies.
Soothing that we sued for peace
Soothing that the tempers calmed
In altercations' quarrel lake
Where differences are drowned or charmed.
Soothing that your grey eyes sleep
Soothing that I walk away,
Walked to seek another life
Where conflicts' brat is held at bay.
Soothing now the day is still
Soothing that the air is calm,
Tho now I long for happenstance
In cut and ****** of battles' harm.
Marshalg
Becalmed.
4 November 2012
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
We had dreams
about the crystal sun
the juniper wind, apple
blossoms and glowing evenings
comfort and quietude
We had dreams
lollipops and no one crying
no pain-and love if not
everlasting
solid and smiling every day
We had dreams
about great ships sailing
wind filling all speed ahead
never becalmed, no one dead,
no rotting bodies on the deck
no witness to inexplicable agony
We had dreams
garlands from gardens
nobody had to tend
ice cream cones piling
sidewalks high
shade for the asking
from every uncomfortable
ray of sun
water enough for everything
lawns and trees
flowers and livestock
children running in sprinklers
water for the taking
every day
We had dreams
soft conversations in
the lamplight, hands to hold
slim and strong whenever
we needed, voices filled
with understanding and strength
for every fear
and every tear dried
by gentle caring touch
We had dreams
that did not include random bullets
sudden death and no clouds
exploding to rain death
on helpless heads
We dreamed we would never be helpless
we had dreams
we bought on time
amortization forever
and no one would ever
have to pay the bills
We had dreams
someone would always save us
mother always did
even when she didn’t want to
even when we made her mad
even when we broke her china
and her heart
We had dreams
laughing and crying
talking into loud speakers
shouting our claims
and never thought how
to make them come true
We had dreams
of glory and taking
down every flag from every
highest hill
and no one would ever be found
face down in two inches of water
drowned on ***** and disaster
We had dreams
that did not include spit
on the sidewalk, in the gutters,
but only clean skies
and apple pie, organically sweet
every day
and endlessly billowing
wheat, and sailing ships
and all the pure water
we could drink for free
and play in
We had dreams
that we could demand pain away consequences
and guilt and the necessary play
of our dreams that mothers would
if we dreamed hard enough
and played hard enough
and the nasty old piper
never called for his fee
We had dreams
and when they didn’t come true
we had curses
We cursed the lollipops
we cursed the ice cream
we cursed the wheat
the cornucopia
the great sailing ships
and the sea
the mother
the sidewalks
the highest hills
and the trickling ditch
we cursed the livestock
and the stereos
the loudspeakers and the glory
and we cursed crying and apple pie
we cursed suffering and anguish
the pipers who demanded to be paid
the ones who paid and complained
about the mess we made
we cursed fine china plates
filled with hard-earned harvests
we cursed love and freedom
we cursed crystal sun
and shade.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Standing, on the other side of lonely
looking in
waiting,like a becalmed sailor
for the wind
looking , for a reason not to shed
another tear
feeling like a paper doll tossed
by the wind
But those long goodbyes
are taking up our time
bring forth all your tears
those long goodbyes
strain our two lives
desperately , clutching the years
Talking,to help myself remember
who I am
Journeys a thousand miles out and back
I've been
discovering, what a loss and what a fool
I've been
hoping, for redemption and another
invite in
But those long goodbyes
keep taking up our time
bring forth all your tears x2
those long goodbyes
straining our lives
desperately, clutching the years
Seeing, you standing in my doorway
once again
knowing, that this is exactly where
you should have been
touching, softly kissing the one that
I've missed
loving,for forever it's always
where we've been
But those long goodbyes
keep taking up our time
bring forth all your tears
those long goodbyes
straining our lives
desperately clutching the years X2
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
*If I could wave a magic wand,
as if to wave away everything to becalmed,
would you, would I,
look up at the sky,
and tell me if you can see,
if you cannot we still aren't free,
as the sky has taken overview, over us,
we must learn to love ourselves, **** it up,
and not fall down, but rise up.
we all must stop trying to play with magic,
and get our heads out of such tactics,
but uses our mind,
to lead our souls less blind,
than wands won't matter,
no matter how big a disaster.*
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
Gilded with flashing boats
That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
O love-pangs, let me be.
Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
Love-promising, entreating,--
Ah! sweet, but fleeting,--
Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
Hush! the wind flags and fails,--
Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,--
Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,--
They cannot hear me moan.
One latest, solitary swallow flies
Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost,
Poor bird, shall it be lost?
Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
With no kind eyes
To watch it while it dies,
Unguessed, uncared for, free:
Set free at last,
The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
Some rent by thunder-strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze:
Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;
He catches down and foolish painted flies,
That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
Betwixt boughs green with sap,
So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.
It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is roused
In cavern where it housed:
Each white and quivering sail,
Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
Each maiden sings again,--
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm,
Miles down my river to the sea
They float and wane,
Long miles away from me.
Perhaps they say: "She grieves,
Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."
Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves."
Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we stand,
Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"
My trees are not in flower,
I have no bower,
And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.
1.7k
Such small things, so little command
the flash of cold steel - my honour becalmed.
Treat every action as all of your life,
and I'll be your conscience... your lover, your wife.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
~~~
the wind of correction
*those invisible currents
for which we create labels
like most everything,
comes in shades of vagaries,
colorations of fierce and gentil
some bear the names of hurricanes,
gale forces, and those, the knotted stiff ones,
welcomed by man's power mills and sailing ships,
and the softest of summer breezes,
caressers of my isle sheltered,
for which I must winter~survive,
that have far too short a half-live,
those summer winds that rejuvenate my sinking soul
but the wind that gets no acclaim,
is the wind behind us that straightens the hunched,
the wind that has no illustrations of its un-famous name,
'tis the wind of correction
that lifts
the wings of the becalmed,
the bewitched, and the downtrodden,
the one that lifts chin from chest,
the one that energizes,
cures the curvature of our spines
to make us sally forth, clear eyed and optimistic,
leaving behind the residue of debris of destruction
when blown off course, be patient,
for a course correction by a kinder kindred force
will set you aright, push you into flight.,
for this wind comes to everyone,
someday, sometime
you do not know the wind of correction?
unfamiliar where and when it blows?
perhaps you call it something else?
I have heard it said,
that its other,
more
correct,
truer name is
love*
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Sailor come hither and harken our song
and be calm and becalmed on our uncharted sea,
and unhindered by storms that would sully thy sails
and the thunderous waves that would pummel thy decks;
oh sailor come hither and harken our song
and our voices will sing joy to thee
Rejoice and remain in the waters we share
with the planks and the plankton, the rainbow of fishes,
the garments of sailors and whalers with whale tattoos
over their chests and their necks;
oh sailor remain in the waters we share
and our voices will bring joy to thee
Swim deep to the depths of our uncharted ocean
And see the fine wrecks of the ships of thy fathers,
the littered bones strewn from the deck hands in hand-me-downs,
anchor chains rusting and bells of submariners;
oh sailor swim deep to the depths of our ocean
and our voices will give joy to thee
Draw breath from the water to taste the fine fragrance
of wines and of gold and the many fine horses
that sailed from old cities to trade with the new towns
and ventured to hear of our song of their happiness;
oh sailor draw breath from the waters fine fragrance
and our voices will sing oft of thee
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
*my poetry has become
a seagulls cry
my soul is adrift
on a becalmed sea.
This sailors wife
knitted his death
into his sweater.
the sea shall swallow me
with its infinite greed.
The cloudless sky
will take my poems
and recite them
from a place on high.
the verses melt
to a single sound.
my poetry has become
a seagulls cry.*
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
Carstairs had been waiting for the boat for three days and there it was, suddenly appeared. He had dozed and it had appeared. He trained his binoculars on it, but it was too far away to be clearly recognisable. It seemed motionless, becalmed in a sheet of unruffled water.
He had dug himself into a bank in the sandhills. He still had a little water, some raisins; there was a final cube of chocolate carefully wrapped in the whole of its paper. It was the thought of this hidden pleasure that had sustained him during the hours of darkness when the slight rain and the chill of inactivity had forced him to exercise, to move about, though always afraid he would lose his burrow.
From the earliest light of dawn the day had been clear and still. The sea birds had muted calls, the sea itself more a presence than a sound. The tide had steadily retreated beyond his expectations. He knew he had to wait for the arranged signal.
Turning on his back he looked at the sky. A few clouds floated hesitantly in the glazed blue. He remembered suddenly a moment from his childhood, above the beach at Red Point. He had escaped his parents, his adored sisters, and hidden himself in the marran grass. He had lain on his back and felt himself levitate into the clouds. He had looked down on the whole scene, a waking dream. Those moments floating above the long Highland beach had never left him. Sitting in the examination hall for his Tripos that memory had come upon him; he had been paralyzed by it, unable to write or think. He had closed his eyes and strange geometrical shapes had ensnared him. He had felt extremely sick . . .and then very calm. He had returned to the task in hand, a translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, that opening passage describing Eurus, Zephyr, Auster and Boreas: the four winds.
. . . he felt something wet nuzzle his hand. A dog, a black shape no more. As he struggled to move himself a larger shape obliterated the sun and shot him.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
Becalmed, the doldrums bear down frowning.
Hull fouled by weeds, persistent barnacles.
The ship is steadfast in her silence,
The light alone enough to shatter us.
Beyond us, off the bow the dolphins plunge
And leap toward home
While we, a company of refugees,
Lie static on this open ocean.
Our eyes are burned by distance.
No breeze to flutter them,
Our tattered flags of truce no longer fly,
But hang like limp, compliant prisoners.
We pray for wind,
The puff-cheeked gods of weather
Drawn upon our useless maps.
A force 10 gale,
The flecks of wave tops on our faces
Rage, determined demons,
In our dreams.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
The sea has gone to sleep:
Become a mirror of the sky.
Lapping onto the land
With subtle churnings.
It’s a brightly sunny day,
Uplifting the spirits.
Hardly a hint of breeze
As the tide creeps out.
I slumber in the languidness of Willy’s beer.
All angst buried as I settle down to sleep.
That mighty, massive ocean is so still now.
Its monsters have been well and truly put to bed.
Blue sky
With lightly painted clouds upon the horizon.
My porch is warm today
In the golden sun.
Paul Butters
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC
#*‘Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale*!
H. W. Longfellow
When bureaucrats, with obfuscation
monotone in data-speak
and mumble to their mutinous nation,
bloodless vessels spring a leak.
Scan in vain the rolling breakers;
leadership is out to sea.
Overscripted undertakers
claim to speak for you and me…
The Ship of State, adrift, becalmed
floats on; a most ill-fated craft.
The body politic, unembalmed
begins to ripen fore and aft.
The crew, grown callous to the rot
and numbed by such expediency
with one last desperate cannon shot
forsake all hope of mutiny.
While computers spit statistics,
crewmen spread the expectant word;
(no more trust in mere ballistics…
hope delayed is hope transferred.)
“Make ready to abandon ship !
The captain’s just a talking head.
Lower the lifeboat, let her rip –
before, like him, we end up dead…”
The Ship of State is rent with breaches
data-leakage, data driven –
the lifeboat flounders, coral-riven
seeking distant wave-washed beaches.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
The freighter loomed from the darkness
Its shadow high on our port,
And Jenny screamed at the starkness
Of the fate the freighter brought,
Its bow wave flowed right over the prow
Of our tiny little yacht,
We knew that we couldn’t ride it out
So whether to swim, or not?
The sea was luckily clear and warm
It had been a perfect day,
As we had lazily sailed along
The length of Innotto Bay,
As night had fallen the breeze had too
And it left us quite becalmed,
So when the freighter came ploughing through
It had seen us both alarmed.
It rose above us, this rusty hulk
That had seen much better days,
The bridge was lit, could they see us sit
Where their bow cut through the waves?
The yacht was rocked by the turbulence
That its mighty hull displaced,
And suddenly we were swamped out there
As the sea rose to my waist.
The yacht had foundered, was going down
Crushed by the mighty bow,
And we fell into the sea where we
Clung on to each other, now.
It ****** us in as it glided past
And we heard the turgid roar,
As the giant props left a wake of froth
That would **** us in, for sure.
And Jenny panicked to stay afloat
As I clung on to her arm,
But down we went as our strength was spent
Where the props would do us harm,
We saw them thrash as we sank on down
And a dull throb filled our ears,
The blades would slice like a guillotine
Was the source of both our fears.
But the violent thrash of the water there
Sent currents beneath the stern,
And we were violently ****** on down
Where the props had ceased to churn,
And when we bobbed to the surface, we
Saw the freighter disappear,
Ploughing into the distance while
We lay in the bay, to cheer.
We were only a mile beyond the reef
And beyond that lay the land,
So struck out together in relief
And I held her by the hand,
We’ll never forget that rusty hulk
As it passed, I caught it’s name,
Riven with old corruption it
Was called, ‘The Devil’s Game!’
David Lewis Paget
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
The clearest blue sky
Not perfect, but pretty close
Scarred with wisps of cloud
Yachts languish in the doldrums
As time itself takes time out
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 7:25 AM UTC
“Angelica arguta”,
He shows her wildflowers
Angelica Susannah.
And prodded further by her
His heart.
Lingers briefly with the night;
Her affection has power,
But not enough
To keep him
From marching off to fight.
One son of One Stab,
He brings wildness from the mountains.
Lovely woman from the East,
Fascinated by her,
His passions.
Revels in her bridal bower,
To stop her
Loving any other.
Eldest son of his father,
Full of rectitude and romance.
Angelica abandoned,
Adrift between the mountains
Becalmed far from the sea.
He takes advantage,
Snatches her soul with riches,
But never captures
Her longing heart.
One son gone,
The other lost and mad.
Years pass and
Happiness found
Is felt too soon.
He loves another,
But Angelica is his doom.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
July 3, 2011
These were the orders of the day,
issued by admirals
who monitor the lanes surrounding
this sea island and that now include
my desolated, desecrated, heart waves
that wash ashore.
With beacon searchlight,
high powered, prowl,
be a coast guard on the bay
of humanity, following wakes,
intersecting misaligned paths,
undoing crisscrossed roads
on a plane of water,
forever search,
permissioned only
to never cease, tasked only to:
Save the young ones.
For there is no cost
we will not bear,
take our mind's light,
our speech, the music from ears,
the fiber'd essence of
our tissue-thin life's weave,
but let us be, leave us,
to save the young ones.
Leave us not becalmed, baffled,
broken, discovering
what sound we make
when our throats are
grief engorged beyond bound,
so leave us the young ones.
When we fail, what it is,
I do not know,
how to name it, cannot,
for I am forever
star gazing, star lost, confused,
with every breath ruptured,
my own value to wonder,
and on and on to ponder:
Is there no end to the reservoir
of tears that accompany these
spilled and spoiled thoughts,
stained kisses on paper
where ink and saltwater connect,
and lay upon the surface of
memories that can't be blotted,
never be replaced or,
cry out, cry out,
be added to?
How many sad poems.
must yet invade my fingers,
ripping my mask of reason off,
making me unhappily familiar
with jagged edges of the sea,
each drop - a tipping point
into places I wanted never know,
a rendering reminder of
these days of disorder,
Save the young ones.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
Becalmed brides, sisters, speech
so faint the spider, who
can only know land as a wave
of webs, could hear their voices
only as the distant, fallopian sounds
he always heard at human birth.
The tension in his eyes
was like a wake of cold water,
as if the sea had parted
and gravity had brought his web
to rest against a bucket on
the frozen floor, too cold for life.
How I do love you,
Little Betty Bo Peep.
How I do care about
your lovely, lonely sheep.
And you too Miss Muffett,
that such a king should play bo-peep,
and go to fools
while grapes hang frozen on
your vines. I might
have explained the clouds to you.
I might have found the great breath.
Do you see this?
Look on her: look, her lips.
St. Lucy’s gown forever fits.
© Jim Kleinhenz
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
I am becalmed
adrift,
lost at sea,
with n'er a lighthouse to look for me.
Alone upon the rising swells, which will not break their voice to tell.
Endless horizons beckon me, yet no zephyrs fill my sail
No tears are cried, no lovers sigh, all colours lost and pale
No sun above, no moon no cloud, no star to guide me home.
Below me only silent depths, above me mourning veil.
I carry with me, broken hopes, no one will ever need
And yearnings dreams and desperate prayers
No god will ever heed.
Islands which once held me safe
are behind but always near
and pain me now
When turning
and with clarity, remain unseen.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC