"drapery" poems
Butterflies turn to moths in the drapery of your stomach.
They spread,
And the feast begins on the fabric lining the masonry of your summit.
Your satin sheets,
The place you come to cradle dreams.
Who knew,
Were vulnerable to these wing'd beasts.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how deep!—O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before—
Videlicet a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented thing!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
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The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
They say they love you.
And they care about you.
And that theyre there for you.
And. Thats supposed to feel good. Its supposed to feel nice.
Be nice.
But honestly.
It just makes me feel nervous.
Uneasy.
Apprehension and suspicion grip me.
They shake me.
And yet at the same time, mostly,
I feel apathy.
Nothing
As if your words were as grains of sand to my beach.
As if they were the folds of some drapery
That i depicted in my sketching class.
Singularly, it is so insignificance to me.
And maybe thats where im going wrong. Looking for beauty and solidity in pebbles and ripples.
It all. Means something. Everything. But.
It all means nothing.
Theyre just words.
And whos to say youre even real.
Wait.
Am i even real.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
Somewhere along the line
it feels like I lost my poetry.
But I've always had a deep affinity of childhood curious-gaze with the light of a passing car slicing through a slumped drapery in the dead of a powerless October night
like a fumbling mouse with night-vision, glassy eyed, walk, walk, walk
run, run, run
scurry-rubber like an imperial humvee of red-carpet glamor.
Somewhere along the line
the freeze of a less-than-bourgeoise temperature never felt close to Antarctic
until the ring of a cell-phone became my national anthem
and the complacent all-eternity-and-everything-we-are-and-more reflective one-eye of a laptop became my national flag
I waived it with surrender calling to all nation states that 'I don't give a sweet ****
entertain me.'
watching politics like sports and sports like politics I couldn't help but hear the old Native inside of me scream in suffocated final breaths so I turned up the volume to drown him out
and when I wished to return to his comforting embrace, I found he had drown to death
so all I could do was stand over his wading body in the river of my mind and lax my shoulders in defeat.
I rang the midnight church bell of 'send new message' to tell the world that didn't care
the shaman is dead.
all they said was
'finally, the shaman is dead.'
I nodded, laughed, locked the bathroom door
and cried until the river ran dry
the shamans body so far down creek I could pretend to forget he had ever existed
the ache inside became a masked anonymity with the glare of Dorian Gray
I shrugged and said, 'I could never make time anyways'
and fell right back into my sleepy routine with another cup of coffee.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song
here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
scattered and at long last, never collected
deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.
what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,
swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
“Tantusan mo!” to remember
where we last took off, like a heron,
or a bird, wary of distances.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Carry me out
Into the wind and the sunshine,
Into the beautiful world.
O, the wonder, the spell of the streets!
The stature and strength of the horses,
The rustle and echo of footfalls,
The flat roar and rattle of wheels!
A swift tram floats huge on us . . .
It's a dream?
The smell of the mud in my nostrils
Blows brave--like a breath of the sea!
As of old,
Ambulant, undulant drapery,
Vaguery and strangely provocative,
Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder--
Is it?--the gleam of a stocking!
Sudden, a spire
Wedged in the mist! O, the houses,
The long lines of lofty, grey houses,
Cross-hatched with shadow and light!
These are the streets . . .
Each is an avenue leading
Whither I will!
Free . . . !
Dizzy, hysterical, faint,
I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me
Into the wonderful world.
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Lucid dreaming, I sit
in a downtown lounge,
swirling ice in my drink, listening
to tiny 'bergs creaking and cracking.
I raise the glass to my lips and
imagine the taste of Shackleton's whisky, after those
100 years in Antarctic ice, assimilating a tinge of penguin, a pinch of
blubber, the turbulence of the sea, the still of the frozen mountains across the tundra, the desolation, the tenacity of survival, the bitter numbing cold, mixed in with
the warm peaty oaken goodness of Scotland at the other end
of the world.
Through the soles of my boots I sense the
thin surface tension keeping my body, the table and chairs
from plunging into the frozen deep that
lurks somewhere beneath the Lower East Side, black and still,
waiting
waiting.
The band starts up in the
next room.
A curtain parts and a blast of brass escapes, a great honking
sound that
reverberates in a molar,
before
a female voice lifts me from my chair, drawing me toward
the source.
Pushing across the floor like Nureyev on ice, I slide deftly between amorous
couples, skirt the co-ed queue at the toilets, dodge the woman at the curtain collecting the cover charge, nod at my pal the bouncer returning to his post and finally
glide/float/fly through the velvet drapery,
focused on the rising soprano.
It's just a dream, I think. Why pay cover?
*Ode to the Living Room
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
WHAT woman hugs her infant there?
Another star has shot an ear.
What made the drapery glisten so?
Not a man but Delacroix.
What made the ceiling waterproof?
Landor's tarpaulin on the roof
What brushes fly and moth aside?
Irving and his plume of pride.
What hurries out the knaye and dolt?
Talma and his thunderbolt.
Why is the woman terror-struck?
Can there be mercy in that look?
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I remodeled my home,
By ridding it of old furniture made of
Dark and malice thoughts,
And redecorated with thoughts of joy and inspiration.
I decorated the empty ceilings
With a full moon and some shining stars,
I took down the drapery that once covered the windows, and watched From my living room as the new dawn embraced the sunshine.
In my garden, I built a house for the melodious birds to warble their Songs, and constructed a temple for prayer from my tears and sorrows.
I planted an olive tree in memory of innocent souls, and decorated it with Some tulips, roses, and jasmine flowers for the anthem of love!
Hussein Dekmak
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
The curtains will close,
only if we’ll allow it.
Not now…
Not at each darkened hour -
where the cycle of ticking hands
seem to wipe clean, the ash and dust
off the faces of every clock.
•••
When the curtains finally do close…
And a little too late…
May the drapery be large enough
to grant eternal peace
and enshroud all the bodies that lay
but not our eyes…
Our hearts…
Our resolve…
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 10:08 AM UTC
Not many tensions,
nor any excitement
Life has ever been
a placidly flowing river!
Single and free!
Over differences,
never been any disputes
never had to consult,
nor seek consent
Single and free!
but doesn’t his house
with its cold, mildewed air
reflect his heart?
A house so full of things:
a hoard of well stacked books,
exquisitely carved Victorian furniture,
antique collection of curios,
ornate drapery
Yet so full of nothing!
The prim order of the house
never disturbed by naughty hands
nor shuffled by dusty feet
dirtying the Persian carpets
or smudging the glistening floor
The well laid bed covers
never get creased
by the body’s desire
and Love’s tight embrace
and never, they bear
the fragrance of female scent!
Sometimes he would shake
from foot to crown
at a question hurled by
an unknown voice;
“Did you squander away your life?”
Then he recognizes….
he has been a lone traveler
ever walking through
a one way lane
that will wind off
with a few more steps!
If, by chance somewhere
a new track
branches out
he would no more be
a solitary *****
There would be a companion
to hold hands!
Now it is too late!
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
She smelled of wild lavender and deep magicks,
The scent hanging in the air like a golden silence,
I'm trying to hold tightly yet composure is first to dissolve,
Senses fall one by one until no dominoes are left,
Stop staring, act natural and crumble on the inside,
Don't speak, reserve your efforts for a smile,
Blown fuse serviced from the under-wing like vertigo in my veins, and neatly betwixt two fingers twirl a cotton drapery,
Framed in silk halo, enshrouding like auras in a Milky Way of phantasmagoria.
Until my thoughts become in summary and each breathe becomes shorter than the last.
The artistry of her elegance like sleek fine line-work on vintage paper and I'm ... feather light.
And in those tresses I'd seen that sheen before, in the ripple of calm ocean waves, and in auburn at sunset.
I'd seen that gloss in her eyes perched upon petals as morning dew and rain upon windows in my quiet times,
Between the silhouetting slopes of her contours as dunes upon the horizon, there's an eclipse in her lips that would not speak in any less than measured prosody nor kiss without dreamscape grandeur.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
I feel like I’m stuck in time.
My feet, cemented to the ground where I stand.
People soar by me on both sides.
All around me, yet nowhere near me.
They successfully string together passionate ideas, delicate drapery, and sky-high goals to form a shell of utter perfection, to those who observe from the outside.
But here I stand, with anger.
An anger so strong, it is removing every part of me until I am too tired to feel anything at all.
This emptiness acts as my superintendence.
Forcing me to laugh loudly at overused jokes,
and widen my tightly shut lips into a smile at compliments, spoken by the peers that play the part of my closest companions.
But these words, once soaked up, fall deep down the hollow hallways of what is left of me.
Welcomed by nothing but a disagreeing voice, behind the quiet thank you that escapes from this empty shell.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
THE Heavenly Circuit; Berenice's Hair;
Tent-pole of Eden; the tent's drapery;
Symbolical glory of thc earth and air!
The Father and His angelic hierarchy
That made the magnitude and glory there
Stood in the circuit of a needle's eye.
Some found a different pole, and where it stood
A pattern on a napkin dipped in blood.
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softly, she weeps
warm tears falling,
tracing her contours.
a breeze, so soft,
moves through her.
it's silent tonight,
and so is she.
tendrils of green,
sway above her.
a dance of despair,
of solace and sadness.
and she joins
and moves with the wind.
she thinks and she thinks,
of ephemeral air.
how it stirs and caresses,
then dissipates and departs,
only to sweep across mountains and valleys.
she wishes to be,
no more than a breeze.
gentle but strong,
to be felt by all yet seen by none.
the willow above,
with its weeping green,
grazes her cheeks,
and beckons her gently
to join with those currents,
in their invisible journey.
and so her body fades,
and she leans to the tree,
the drapery of leaves
enfolding her like a lover.
if one were to glance
at the willow tree,
they would see a girl no longer there
would see only tendrils of green,
swaying in the wake of some wind.
in her place,
there is now a silent emptiness.
and the willow still weeps
with joy for her freedom,
in despair that she's gone.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
.
*Poems are plush curtains,
of words,
pulled together
to hide the world
from the raw emotion
that flows
out of a writer
casting pearls.*
© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 4:01 PM UTC
Religion had locked me up in a closet
shrined with Adam and Eve
Mary and Joseph.
Adam married Eve, my child,
Mary bewedded Joseph, my child.
Blessed be the day you crawl out of this closet
to be coveted by the golden halo God has waiting for you.
I have been clothed in God’s golden halo,
drapery of fine linens, for he loves me so,
and religion had locked me up.
I wish for Adam to marry Adam,
Eve to love Eve.
For a closed door shall never preserve,
progress has made its step forward,
and I choose to march with.
Religion had locked me up in a closet,
for if I had never opened the door,
misery would have reigned upon me.
And with this,
though I may be frowned upon in a chapel,
hostility will never hold my heart.
-Chloe Aldecoa
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
Whatever shall happen, shall happen
Whatever will be, will be
In the grand tapestry of the universe
Everything that has been done
Is being done
And will be done
Comes with certain intentions
With these intentions, we shall either rise or fall
For every cause has its consequences
And every effect is with reason
The only offer we are given
The only thing that can be done
Is a choice
Is our choice
To alter the fabric of reality
To make a difference
Whether good or bad
But all must be done in caution
All must be done with a bit of uncertainty
For the slightest decision
For The verdict being made
Can change everything
Can alter all things minimal or grand
It is a jump
A chance
To fly or to fall
But it must be done with no fear
No holding back
Once the choice is made
There is no turning back
Once the pattern has been made
Into that giant, beautiful, complex drapery
It is forever imprinted
As is his faith in you
As is his trust
For that choice shall never be forgotten
It will forever be etched into time
Forever imbedded within his mind
So what choice will you make?
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
Kali, make me an implement of your final cruelty and wisdom
Where there is motion, let me slow the vibration
So that your senses might attune to stillness
So that you might destroy my innocence and abolish my existence
May Kali Yuga swallow every form
May the myriad wonders go rushing, gushing thru your fangs
May the birth pangs of tomorrow chase the fortune of today
May the endless hours be abolished in calamity
Teach us to acknowledge the concrescence of our essence
Show us finality of form
Destroy the walls of every home—for we have willed it
Forever in a vacuum
May there be no sound of seasons
May every reason fall to chaos
You have made us in your image
Teach us to recognize
Where there is form, void;
Where there is truth, deception;
Where there is certainty, a cosmic pun;
Where there is reality, hallucination;
Where there is touch, neglect;
Where there is growth, a garden full of ashes;
You of many names: Anima, The Serpent Mother, Blessed Other,
Mind of Nature, Mind of Man, She Who Can, She Who Is, Spider Woman, Tao
Bring us to the edge of the unspeakable now
Disrupt our petty play
Absolve us from decay
Amazing how we’ve come so far
And are still so far apart
Everything is natural
I tell myself
But then
What makes us so strange?
Something here is strange
We seek to make it known
Like a deadbeat injuring himself
On the job
In Tennessee
Subject to
Endless repetition
In the marble quarries
Of old Athens
We copy what is known
Expecting praise
While cities of the night
Reveal an ancient face
The body is the portal
The world is but a riddle
On the stone cells of
A tomb
Golden wax
Breeds life
From the base of a great tree
Where an old woman
Sings in praise of Kali Yuga
Calls the pasture to her hand
And all the humming things
Come forward
Blind & obedient
Like unpolished flesh
The drapery billows w/
No motion
Sends the eyeballs off
In search of internal shadows
Where the Other waits
Where it always has
Where it will be confronted
Where it will be embraced
Where it will be known
Or die to our division
& cover up our genitals forever
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
My Mother was sad –
When I had walked, talked
And left the girl there,
All alone in her bed,
The bed I’d fled
And cushion not my own
As I’m now laying,
Sheets up to chin
And lying as well, at home,
My mother’s home,
But the home she said,
I’d "always have.”
I roll over.
My bed, my very own,
Is hours away and if I were,
“There,”
I’d still hear her tears,
My mother’s
And those of the “others” I’d left
Behind, left before, abandoned
In that very bed that’s now
And hers, only hers,
Far from ours or ever will be;
An “Eden,” becoming exile;
Truth in prior trespass – an end.
I roll over.
And as selfish as all this may sound,
I saunter to the smell pancakes,
Maple syrup,
And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead;
Up until the grief of a mother –
Tears atop tabletops,
A stream quite displaced from mad,
Where my visits, become few, far
And even further,
Most importantly – Alone;
For her, for me and it pains her even more,
The solitude of, “I.”
I roll over.
Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow,
But something else awry. Awry or away,
Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again,
Snores intermitted renewed grin
Under dreamt up birthday cakes,
Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps
Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home.
So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow
And a small dog at her feet,
She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied.
The one left behind, probably not though,
As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled
Drink come reckless.
I roll over.
And like her, I’m still awake,
Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep,
Because I’m –
A little ashamed, a tad content,
Still tired though and as odd as this may
Sound, or not,
Hungry for breakfast
As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled
Cries
And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a
Sacred long gone;
Solace in only one of the two being happy,
But one more than the two that weren’t before.
I roll over and will again and again
And again.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
I dedicate this poem to all my Friends here, as I narrate the interesting facts about Snowflakes,which is seen in abundance during this time of the year, as I wish them all A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR 2021. A Snowflake is a single ice crystal hardly visible to our naked eyes. During 1805, an American Wilson Bentley for the first time captured in his camera by magnifying them several time for us to see! Best Wishes from – Raj, New Delhi, on the New Year’s Eve of 31st December2020.
*VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR 2021 TO MY FRIENDS
WITH MY TRIBUTE TO SNOWFLAKES*
Composed By Raj Nandy
Deep within the snow covered landscape,
Lies a Symphony of Nature’s microscopic
beauty unseen!
Lying crystallized in a multitude of Snowflakes,
Like a vast hidden world of dreams!
Till young Wilson Bentley became the first,
To photograph the Snowflake’s hidden work
of Art!
These flakes are minute crystals of hexagonal
shapes,
Where no two flakes ever look the same!
Some are shaped like needles and dendrites,
While others like star crystals look bright.
Perhaps those Heavenly Stars from eons past,
Watching mankind that turns to dust,
With their petty quarrels and strife,
And with all their arrogance and pride,
Vainly trying to challenge God’s might;
So they shed their starry tears all through the
night!
Their tears float down as they waltz through
space,
Falling gently like some gossamer lace,
To get congealed into Snowflakes white,
Presenting in the morning a dazzling sight,
Like a drapery over Nature of dazzling white!
While all our impurities they cover and hide,
Those little Snowflakes of little pearly ice, -
Makes the Earth appear like Paradise!
Snowflakes are God’s unique work of art my
friends,
We humans cannot achieve His artistic level of
excellence!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi,
NOTES :-
It was young Wilson Bentley , who in 1805 , fitted a microscope
to his camera to take the first photographs of Snowflakes ! He
thereby exposed this hidden world of Art to our World ! Hexagonal in shape each snow crystal is made up of about 200 separate crystals with the bonding of hydrogen & oxygen atoms, – forming an infinite variety of patterns, where no two snowflakes look the same! Snow crystals grow faster near 5 degrees Fahrenheit , - falling on ground with temperature below freezing ! The 6 basic shapes of Snowflakes are; - Plate or Flat, Stars , Needles , Dendrite, and Capped column shape.
*ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY*
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.madame's stifled feverish
tittering,
voice raucous as tamped in a
corselet,
translucent skin akin to pellucid
drapery,
overwrought hands entwined in champagne
hair,
madame's eccentricity is her
lunacy.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.the mellifluous static of the ebony
radio,
dulcet hallucinations imbricate in her
Crumpet,
ephemeral visionary of the
erstwhile,
Madame’s a suitable fandangle tenant of the
bedlam.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.madame scrutinized the greenwood through the
crevice,
appetency for the veil of sea
smoke,
imperceptive to her
frenzy.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.ensnared in an austere
plight,
madame’s urbane actuality,
disenfranchised.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.the exuberant dimension of reciting
hysteria.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
First things first,
you’ll have to remove your hat and
the plank strapped to your limbs.
Your body will be used to thumb-wrestle with
gravity.
Please remove the staples from your chest.
Find your new set of lungs.
There is space to breathe here.
Take this new heart.
You’ll beat slower, suspended.
Circadian rhythms will not help you.
Your body will become a willow in a storm,
never breaking.
There are no mistakes here.
You’ll learn to drink silence for sustenance,
washed down with madness and tepid water.
You’ll learn to compensate for lacking conversation, hold secret meetings
in the basement of your mind.
You’ll learn how to disappear in a room.
No matter how hard you pound against walls
they remain padded,
concealed behind billowing drapery.
No one will hear you.
But, you’ll fit in fine.
You’ll stretch your skin as a tattooed leotard.
You won’t grow up,
You’ll grow inward
fortifying your lungs with weeds.
L’appel du vide, your distinctive urge to jump down from
high places will be quelled
by the grace in lifting.
Take respite,
There is nothing left to destroy here.
There are no checkpoints to neglect.
There is no need to be a hero.
Still,
you’re not convinced this is so much better.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC