"composes" poems
~a question of a thousand dreams~^
“Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see”
this one composes itself
for all dreams go unremembered
the first, the thousandth, the every in between,
erased by the push button of opening eyes
but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel
the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an
unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen
these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting,
leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come
in black and white
elementary clues,
a pillow indentation,
single hair that stretches
across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red
but
certainly unmine,
dregs of soured sentiment linger like the
aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers
heated summers breezes give no succor or relief,
and the rain following gives no pleasure,
for now you are hot and soaked,
but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed,
and eyes widening in major league surprise,
the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted
she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she
provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair,
and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain,
and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated
and what you do and what you see
is the abraded night ahead, and
you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think,
the question answered, and you beg relief by
uttering
“perchance to dream”
3:49 pm
see the notes!!
someone accuses me of Plagiarism
because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago
so here is my response to
“just saying”
congratulations on ******* me off
and yes I agree, you do not know the rules
“#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim
Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“
http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
I saw a tear rolling down her face
I asked if you were alright
She said that she was fine
Somehow she always finds
The inner strength to carry on
She knows she's always
got a shoulder she can lean on
But somehow she composes herself to stay strong
Every time I see her she's smiling
Why's it feel like on the inside she's dying
Why does she hold back the secrets she's hiding
She's got demons
Yeah she's got scars
She's carried herself this far
She won't let another
Carry her problems
She's got a mindset to solve them
The demons she wants to control them
She knows she could tell
her friend's anything
But she chooses to hold it inside
Deal with it in the dead of night
She holds her pillow tight as she cries
She has bad decisions and regrets
She doesn't wanna share
She turns music on
To try help her sleep
But she lays wide awake
Thoughts won't let her sleep
She knows she's in deep
She's got demons
Yeah she's got scars
She's carried herself this far
She won't let another
Carry her problems
She's got a mindset to solve them
The demons she wants to control them
She's, spent the night
looking at stars
Making wishes
Skimming pebbles across the lake
She's afraid of what people say
Somehow she still puts on a brave face
She's looking for the sun
To brighten up her day
Then again she likes the smell of rain
Let these emotions just wash away
She's got demons
Yeah she's got scars
She's carried herself this far
She won't let another
Carry her problems
She's got a mindset to solve them
The demons she wants to control them
©2017 Written By Benji James
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC
The evening light is glowing
Scattering shadows behind
Drizzling down the sky
The rain composes a night rainbow.
Under the moonlight.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
My manner of thinking, so you say, cannot be approved.
Do you suppose I care? A poor fool indeed is he who adopts a manner of thinking for others! My manner of thinking stems straight from my considered reflections: it holds with my existence, with the way I am made. It is not in my power to alter it; and were it, I’d not do so. These manners of thinking you find fault with is my sole consolation in life; it alleviates all my sufferings in prison, it composes all my pleasures in the world outside; it is dearer to me than life itself. Not my manner of thinking but the manner of thinking of others has been the source of my unhappiness. The reasoning man who scorns the prejudices of simpletons necessarily becomes the enemy of simpletons; he must expect as much, and laugh at the inevitable. A traveler journeys along a fine road. It has been strewn with traps. He falls into one. Do you say it is the traveler's fault, or that of the scoundrel who lays the trap? If then, as you tell me are willing to restore my liberty if I am willing to pay for it by the sacrifice of my principles or my tastes, we may bid one another an eternal adieu, for rather than part with those, I would sacrifice a thousand lives and a thousand liberties, if I had them. These principals and these tastes, I am their fanatic adherent; and fanaticism in me is the product of persecutions I have endured from my tyrants. The longer they continue their vexations, the deeper they root my principles in my heart, and I openly declare that no one need talk to me of liberty if it is offered to me only in return for their destruction.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
Closely I observe myself from afar.
My world transforms into a perplexed dream.
Earth-toned hues shine brighter than any star.
Perception composes a wary theme.
Contorted tree limbs mock every movement.
Eyes become filled with cotton candy clouds.
Conversations are no longer fluent.
Alone I walk in a burial shroud.
I pinch my arm to make sure I’m not dead.
Numb is the only sensation I feel.
Broken shards of faith bear a tint of red.
The face in the mirror doesn’t look real.
Existence slowly crumbles into sand.
I’m a stranger who roams this foreign land.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Alone again,
But not lonely
Accepted solitude
As tranquility
Your fear
My freedom
Exploring my depth
Releasing my demons
Core settles
In tune
Mind opens
Heart composes
Serenity and beauty
Heeding inner voice
Spiritual rejoice
Gratitude
Emotional latitude
Flows freely
Rejecting the judgmental,
Artificial
Open to growth
Affirming an oath
Confident in myself
Purpose in moving forward
Trusting my gut
Relying on Superiority
The One and Only
Alone again,
But not lonely
© JL Smith
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Her fragrance spills ,
onto the sheets.
They leave little traces,
in every little corner,
every crevice of our small world.
And as our fingers entwine,
under the moonlit sky,
I feel myself soaring
up to kiss the stars.
She composes tunes of
my existence
to the sound of her heart.
She smelled of the universe.
Warm,
wild,
chaotic,
and broken.
And every night,
before I fall asleep
to the sound of her heartbeat,
I take in her fragrance.
Reason being,
I want to bury it in my lungs
and scatter it every time
I exhale.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
The bench, made of many things, like support,
From loved ones, or others very close, or hopes,
Of the same, etching into the legs, of this bench.
Strongest metal, I dare to say, composes the legs,
Of this bench, upon which I sit, among other things,
Like the wood, from the strongest oak, that's unbending.
Yes I sit, upon this beautiful piece, of collaboration
Of my family, I admire their dedication, but I dash it,
I apologize, but you see I sadly, must reject it.
This because, what sits upon this bench, is not me,
at least, not entirely or only me, but the visitor,
it's silent, an aura of death surround it, ghastly.
It sits, this bench that used to hold, now folds,
The visitor, quite happily enjoys, the sight
Of falling, I'm falling down, onto ground.
Nowhere, that's where I land, for I have done
the deed, I am no more unfortunately, my regrets,
The visitor, he has claimed victory, and I defeat.
I lay, breathless and unliving, quite ugly,
Not only that, but this beautiful bench, a waste,
My last blunder, I've sparked the fire asunder, Goodbye.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
My love, you see makes my heart sing
With musical notes it composes
Cause you do play on my hearts strings
My masterpiece laid before you
upon a bed of roses
I won't waste my precious time
& dance around the truth
For a symphony plays its song in me
And your beauty is my fountain of youth
My wife, you see - I hope you to be
My wife, you see - how lovely
My song, you see? Will never cease
It'll play throughout eternity
For the instruments that lay inside
Will never stop, nor ever die
For the beauty I see, instills in me
An everlasting energy
So hearken unto me, my sweet baby
Cause I'll never leave nor say goodbye
My song, you see? Makes my heart ring
Adoration does your heart bring
My masterpiece that will never cease
Is finally composed
I hope, my dear, that our union is near
& I'll become your king
My wife, you see? I hope you to be
Say yes to me, when I final-ly propose
Now we're here right at the end, my dear
A musical crescendo
As it plays, I do hope you say
That you truly love me and that you'll always stay
This song I feel, is very real
And its not an innuendo
Now on my knee, as you can see
Will you marry me? I plead and pray
Marry me, my wife to be, and let our duet play
Forever and ever entwined together
Mr. and Mrs. Gray
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 12:01 AM UTC
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~
*"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~*
the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits
dear brothers:
tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!
men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey
yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away
to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of Pablo Neruda's words:
***"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"***
fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
Imaginary Boy
builds imaginary walls so tall he trumps the Taj Mahal.
He walks corridors to imaginary doors
where he stores his love in hoards of fantasies,
but he figures her
the mystery,
the puzzle to be solved.
Imaginary boy
composes stormy melodies.
He plays them through
imaginary seas,
but in his heart it is the sirens,
with songs diminished, sickly,
who claim his ship for the fiery deep.
While he fills his pockets with stone, he screams,
"I stored my love in hoards on board, and she's taken all I have!"
Imaginary Boy
lives in a dream, but never sleeps.
Quietly, he mumbles, "That woman, she makes me bleed."
but she could never penetrate that deep,
because he cannot see her
through his warped expectations.
Imaginary Boy
doesn't know that love resounds infinitely through our mentality,
and cognitively,
it is our decision to love,
and we decide how to love,
and who to love
Imaginary Boy,
love is a verb, never a noun,
and so very real,
so very profound,
that the loving cannot be real
if the expectations are imaginary.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
one day i'll be 3,ooo miles east
where i'll become a four-eyed monster
and a two-hearted beast
ill eat the world away
bit by bit,
savoring each flavor that composes such a delicacy
truly enjoying it for what it is
a canvas with every superhumanly color imaginable
a geometric exhibit
an open heart surgery
magnifying the arterys and veins that make it pump
i'll bathe in the Arga
and dance on the Teide
as i listen to the clack of
the bull's hooves against the pavement
the screams of people feeling human
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 8:18 AM UTC
Science is governed by theorems and laws, but I think its more important to learn, live, and love from nature’s flaws. Ideal reactions exist on paper created by pencils, but really its nothing more than a flawed man’s stencil. Something unable to exist in freeform untempered by the creative storm and unblemished by the perfect mistakes that prove its not fake. Thats not of what I partake.
You make my world spin and keep my gravity down. It’s just the physics of our situation, is this our mind or the worlds creation? Einstein was the founder of relativity but I’m sure of our brevity. A whirlwind thats almost out of control, the dance of days that composes our souls. Linked rhythmically together no longer singularly apart joined at the heart never to depart and so we start. I’m not sure how this equation functions but its a positive conjunction. I want to linearly progress without regress never to suppress or obsess but to travel and caress but I digress with my interest to express.
I haven’t done the math but I’m almost positive one heart plus one heart equals one heart. Thats real arithmetic, a force surely kinetic. Attracted and reacted to form a singular product of an environment construct. You make my world spin and keep my gravity down. It’s just the physics of our situation.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
She stares into the mirror, numb.
All she sees is the imperfections.
Her body trembles as she runs her fingers along each stretch mark.
Tears stream down her cheeks, bluring her vision.
She falls to the floor, trying to hide her stomach so the fat doesn't show.
She wishes she could be the girl she once was.
She reaches for the knife off the counter and just clenches it in her hand.
Sobbing harder, she drops it knowing that she'll become stronger some day.
She gradually composes herself, rising to her feet.
She'll break this cycle one day.
It might not be soon but it will happen.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 4:05 AM UTC
1. There’s an “e” in your name.
2. It’s also composes a syllable of it.
3. Things will always empty, no matter what. Even bottles, for example. Especially ones that contained alcohol. You seemed to enjoy emptying those quite a lot.
4. Once, I emptied a pen of it’s ink while writing about you.
5. There is no “e” in my first name, but you pronounced it as if there was, replacing the first “a” with an “e”.
6. I always, and still do, get annoyed whenever people mispronounce my name, but never when you did it. I always knew that you were the one calling it. You were the one thing I was always sure of.
7. The other night, I tried to think of other things that started with “e” and “a”. I found “always” and “eventually”. Just as you substituted the “e” for the “a”, we substituted “always” for “eventually”.
8. Or maybe it could stand for “eventually an alcoholic”?
9. I just wish that you could have emptied your heart out to us just as easily as you could empty a bottle down your throat.
10. Ever since you told us that you drove home drunk I’ve been thinking about writing an eulogy.
11. Please don’t make me write one. Not while we’re so young.
12. Eventually, everything expires, like our patience, our vitality, and our days.
13. You haven’t spoken to anyone in months, and I don’t know how to reach you, or if you even want me to. When I saw your mother this past October, I wanted to ask her if she knew had badly you had been struggling, but I didn’t because I know that you would have hated me for it. There was a reason you had tried to keep your addiction a secret.
14. The letter “e” is the most used letter in the alphabet. How can you ask me to forget you when nearly every word I write has a trace of you in it?
15. I would never pick up a pen again if it meant that I could hear you mispronounce my name one more time.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
Pasta
They ask, “what is poetry?”
I’d give them a bowl of spaghetti.
Naturally they’re taken aback.
No surprise about that
Still I’d tell them,
*“Here, take a bowl of my tiny soul.
If you look into it well enough
You would know that it’s not just a mush of twenty-six alphabets
See, I took the sticky dough that composes my mind
And shoved it through the tiny holes I call standards
And carefully pulled out the strands of words.*
I’d tell them,
*“Then I would pour the red sauce, my personal favorite,
That I cooked up with my blood and tears.
If you taste them correctly, a voice will sneak into your minds
And speak their reality.
Although it may hurt, that way you will see.
That’s my poetry.”*
I would tell them, but I think they weren’t listening because
They would just drink up the whole thing like hungry savages.
And I would quietly stand there in awe
Because they wouldn’t understand.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Love glows in my chest
Composes my very nature
Tests my every limit
Leaves me sleepless
Restless
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 1:11 AM UTC
He knows what lies below.
This is where it all began: here
Beneath the bubbling sludge and ******* mud.
This is the home brew, the cocooning grounds.
His sturdy boots trudge through,
Hefting questions and glasses askew.
Somewhere to the side a fat swamp prince
Composes bog rhymes in ribbit meter.
Each squelching step sets a buzzing bunch
Of crystal dragons zipping away to
Slick peridot pontoons. A loon swoons
The expeditioner with a sobbing cry. He
Has said goodbye to reservations, to the
Long-dead preservation rights. He slogs through
The buzzing night. Yellow daggers clench
Between scaly steeltrap snappers and stones
With eyes blink in languid surprise, unnoticed.
He is lost, dying, unsure of his quest. He needs a
Cure. He knows it lies here, in the beginning place.
Their faces haunt his deathly guts and crush
His straining heart with need - need for the solution.
Need to survive, to prolong his life - alone!
So alone: the last. If only he could rest.
His nostrils quiver with the homesick stench
Of tails becoming legs and nipping lips sprouting
Sticky tongues. The answer, he is here for the
Only answer. Something below, below, down
In the dredges of history - in the slime of
Centuries, rotless and preserved. He will find it:
Some link, some closer thing he can revive
And test and rest as bedrock for his life.
A foot sticks in the overfriendly tar. No,
He will not pause. He has come too far.
In the birthing grime, some hungry memory wakes.
It knows what lies above, it thirsts to cease it.
It reaches, roils, pulls, rips with smelly squish-fingers -
Thirsting and thirsting to slake. It longs to reveal
To show, to make known to the traveler.
(All he has searched for is found here, it knows,
Organized and close. Held and safe below)
It reaches, grabs - thirsty - presses him into
A false step. A slip. A skritching clipboard
Of statistics curses in rustling indignance
As it flutters to the mud above a splattered head.
Science-frozen lungs fill with dread -
With life-giving peat. (It will show him) He ***** in
And burbles out a scream. (what he wants, show him)
This is where it begins, (this is his dream!) where it ends.
Now he knows what lies below. He lies - curled -
Quenched from growth. The eyes of unnoticed
Stones blink in surprise. Soaring swamp lyrics
Rise, a loon swoons with a sobbing cry.
He curls in peace and drifts alone
Now he knows what lies below.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
He asks her to write a song for him,
She composes for him, her poetry...
He asks her to tell him a bed-time story
She lulls him with her poetry...
He asks her to sing a song for him,
She recites to him her poetry...
He asks her to dance with him,
She moves him with her poetry...
He asks her, to be his girl.
She smiles, and gives him her poetry...
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
We clocked in
(Punched in the older guys said)
And sat in a circle of orange plastic chairs
Hubbed by a thin morose
Befuddlement of a team lead
“An hour, just what is an hour?” he asked to begin the weekly meeting
I wanted to say, “A unit of temporal measurement that comprises -- or is that composes? -- sixty minutes,”
But held back
Knowing the obviousness of the query had to be a set-up
The befuddlement sighed in frustration
An understudy to my English III instructor
(the one who gave me an F- on the Emily Dickinson test)
Then said, “Okay, just what can be done in an hour?”
Then the youngest kid who always kept quiet
But who had enough scars -- had to toss in a lurid touch didn’t I --
To imply that he might have more experience than the oldest said,
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, then just what is that contraption on the other side of the bay?”
“An assembly line.”
“And what does it do?”
“It makes a 30centaurpower indivertible that runs on Gila monster spit.”
He nodded.
He considered.
“Okay, then, let’s punch out and come back tomorrow. Maybe then we’ll really have something to do.”
(And - oh yeah -- putting on my hat as a frustrated teleplay writer:
Those scars showed that he could handle himself.)
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
Todesfugue ("Death Fugue")
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky;
there’s sufficient room to lie there.
The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes
in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by,
whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie.
He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance!
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes...
he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...”
We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high.
His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!”
He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue,
screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes.
He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!”
He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise
to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight;
we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany!
We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you...
He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue.
He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true.
He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies.
He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany...
“Your golden hair Margarete...
your ashen hair Shulamith...”
Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry.
Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
Salty air,sultry weather
A lone ship sails in blue waters.
Steadily,inch by inch in the suicidal sea
Making its way through the giant sea.
As the sky turns grey,
And the waters turn prey,
It balances n composes itself.
Against all odds,with all lords.
The voyage has begun.
And so has the competition.
Competition-against the mighty blue sea.
Bon Voyage!
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
The beauty of life isn't captured in files nor profiles.
It's in a blink or a thought of a distant place.
It lies in emotions that reminice of a time not yet spent.
It is a few seconds in a multiple uncaptured frames.
It lies in the ignored existence of composure.
It influences the untapped recognitions of appreciation.
The beauty of life is not about me showing or telling.
It's only about a few thoughts that inspire ambitions.
A few dreams that elevate fantasies.
The beauty of life is about me in a second painting a picture of elegant brush strokes,
the motion of the eye that composes a visual symphony,
it is an organised cluster of sounds that co-ordinates the performances of all other senses.
It is about leaving open a beat of the heart, only to fill it with the energies of the living.
The beauty of life isn't about searching for joy,
but learning from memories of both depression and tranquility.
It is about the heart losing weight,
the smile gaining width and height.
The beauty of life is about the value of sorrow depreciating.
For me it's about ploughing joy from seeds of madness,
or overturning a frown into a thing of beauty.
It's about dreams that don't need me to sleep and nightmares that have no back up files.
The beauty of life...
As much as I try to define it,
the statements always have a questionmark at the end.
So forever I search, for the beauty of life...
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:19 AM UTC
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...
~~~
to, for & from SJR
~
this force,
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine
write write rite right
consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to
write write rite right
cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?
street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?
lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity
from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.
all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights
he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,
and is satisfied
unto sleep
praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to
write write rite right
4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC