"sheeted" poems
Color floods to the spot, dull purple.
The rest of the body is all washed-out,
The color of pearl.
In a pit of a rock
The sea ***** obsessively,
One hollow thw whole sea's pivot.
The size of a fly,
The doom mark
Crawls down the wall.
The heart shuts,
The sea slides back,
The mirrors are sheeted.
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It was golden and splendid,
That City of light;
A vision suspended
In deeps of the night;
A region of wonder and glory, whose temples were marble and white.
I remember the season
It dawn'd on my gaze;
The mad time of unreason,
The brain-numbing days
When Winter, white-sheeted and ghastly, stalks onward to torture and craze.
More lovely than Zion
It shone in the sky
When the beams of Orion
Beclouded my eye,
Bringing sleep that was filled with dim mem'ries of moments obscure and gone by.
Its mansions were stately,
With carvings made fair,
Each rising sedately
On terraces rare,
And the gardens were fragrant and bright with strange miracles blossoming there.
The avenues lur'd me
With vistas sublime;
Tall arches assur'd me
That once on a time
I had wander'd in rapture beneath them, and bask'd in the Halcyon clime.
On the plazas were standing
A sculptur'd array;
Long bearded, commanding,
rave men in their day—
But one stood dismantled and broken, its bearded face battered away.
In that city effulgent
No mortal I saw,
But my fancy, indulgent
To memory's law,
Linger'd long on the forms in the plazas, and eyed their stone features with
awe.
I fann'd the faint ember
That glow'd in my mind,
And strove to remember
The aeons behind; &
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In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—
By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
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At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
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The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)
Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.
The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.
Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.
To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!
Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!
My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.
My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!
Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."
The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.
Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.
The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold
How the voluminous billows roll and run,
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold
All its loose-flowing garments into one,
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold.
So in majestic cadence rise and fall
The mighty undulations of thy song,
O sightless bard, England’s Mæonides!
And ever and anon, high over all
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong,
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas.
2.4k
beluga whales surfaced, floating ghostly white
ferocious tides ripped, sands sinking
cowslip tripped the cloud's crashing sky
sunbursts cracked storm walls, with fire yellow light
rain far-off sheeted, poured - hillsides weeping
fireweed bowed, bent heavily sleeping
the rutted road curved swerving narrowly upward
leading me to the sweet summer of Girdwood
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
Let us fall,
Fall into a satin-sheeted bed,
As our passions push us into an intertwine,
As each touch waivers away our ornaments,
That are nothing but a bother,
So that our skins may kiss,
Let my lips caress upon you,
And caress I shall,
Till the roses of desire that blossom on your cheeks,
Grows and spread to all points intimate,
As the garnered juices of intimacy between your thighs,
Waterfalls down your legs,
Shall our hearts pound as hard as the bed rattles,
As we feast upon our lusts, as if there were no more morrows.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 12:12 AM UTC
His name lingers on my tongue's tip.....
Striking passion like flint, tossing sparks like fireworks
Into the ink black sky;
Stirring emotions like the leaves
That scuttle around my feet;
Autumn walks, stealing light from the moon,
Her tendrils spiral, lingering..and the colours fall
In words that flutter from my tongue...
My eyes whisper, ache,
A timeless want, feeding in the hunger of his tender wrap..
And
Morning undresses inhibitions in anticipation
Of having him see me naked and unashamed..
My deepest secrets shared,
With the slivers and shards of what once resembled
A heart falling like rain about my feet..
The curve of his back trails toward a path
Unknown, shadowed within my stare;
Finding solace in the rising storm,
As it lays sheeted beneath satin layers of gentle;
A hush of soft, stirs,
Caressing the edge of sapphire whispers;
The sweet of first blush, laces fever in the swallow of rushing rivers
Liquored with moonshine sprinkles, and
Swooning as Autumn winds
Surge... and dance, syllables that speak for our tongues
Holding on tight, limb to limb
Not afraid to let go
Just not ever wanting to........
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
Our house in Brooklyn
Groaning with the heavy sheeted winds
Car doors and answering machines
A windy, winding tunnel of deep seated hatred
Vaulting towards you and me
Deep down in our tunnel of love
The black ice is slippery
Several more years til this kills me
Sipping cherry coke and *****
Sitting playfully on the carpeted floor
Playing with your fingers while Maury screams on TV
Screaming with some unknown rage in his eyes
A rage that has come from deep psychological problems
The rats in our walls stir again
Dark clouds form overhead
Making shadow puppets in the dark Brooklyn streets
And they boxed in the Avenues of the Brooklyn rain
Triumphant in their arrival
Several more years now
Several more years.
The rain streaks the windows
Water drops form vertical lines
They race.
The dogs barking again and I can’t control this situation
The sirens are singing again and they won’t quit
Every year this house stays up
We waste it on gin and cheap TV
Watching the cable from the house two blocks down
They watch the ********* stuff.
The Brooklyn smog hangs in the air
Dismal and clear.
The sirens won’t quit
But the dogs have given up
Their sheltered under the porch
Whining, whining.
The cable cuts out
The static on the radio is clear
And then the dogs howl.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
I'll write and say same words I've said
ten thousand times before
Until I don't believe
that I believe them anymore
Because riding on this carousel
means spinning one's wheels
into moist ground
thought I had some traction
but it seems I thought too soon--
So I am off of the rails
Off the wagon. Off to nowhere.
'Cuz it's, "Onward, lads,
to one more night spent
covering ground's familiar footsteps
and sheeting snowy sidewalks
in the dollars we don't have."
And we'll lay 'em kinda thick
press our prints in Presidents
pro bono comes advice
from the corners we can't heed,
but por argento comes the cure
we choose to **** our heads with
I'll pick a place, polish my boots
get far as my front steps
where I'll sit until the summer rolls around
and sweat rolls down in sheets
Short sheeted best hopes,
shortened thank-you notes
and lists of ****** quotes
lay around and resonate
on floors and facebooks,
tabletops
in summertime,
when it rolls around
But, now, it's winter
and we're all 364 1/4 resolutions older
--at 33 revolutions per minute,
and 16 ounces at a time,
we can almost cope.
Now, it's winter and the sheets are
still too warm
Now, it's winter and we sheet the
snowy sidewalks
in Presidential faces
in the dollars we don't have
and the cure we **** our heads with
keeps us safely insane
'Cuz in a world built by psychopaths,
the sane don't always last.
And, if I'm the last one out?
I'll sing a song and **** the lights before I go.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I lost my first love,
For the millionth time
Then I woke up
It still hurts, like the first time, even in dreams
Wiping the cold out my eyes
Or are they dried up tears
From emotional scar tissue
Built up year after year
As I rise from bed
So do the suppressed memories of her
Like the raising of a purposely sunken ship
Buried deep, deep in the Mariana Trench
Then she follows me until the afternoon
Like a ghost in mourning, with unfinished business of this earth
A plague on my mind, like rain on recess
I can still see the layout of her fathers apartment
Perfectly laid out in my mind
Her and I, laying in her adolescent, orange sheeted silk bed
Quietly spelunking each others bodies
As to not sound the protective alarm in her fathers head
I can still smell her
Hear her
Feel her touch, in bed, whilst I
When I sleep, I can't control her
Time isn't linear
After we close our eyes and turn in
In my dream state
We'll still date
Jumping around from July 2005 to May 2008
But never again with eyes open
For I see a different person
Then when my eyes are closed
Skin pressed, rubbing of the nose
Our naked bodies and clenched toes
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
There is at all times
A soup boiling
In the plains of the Savannah.
As the wind presses its large and small hands
Into the course straw grass
To smooth the wrinkles-
But also to make more.
And falling slowly, fluxing,
Between the waves—creatures,
All of them strange,
Blending.
And from time to time, a sickening red,
But only for a while,
Until it is swirled once more into the soup,
Or steeping into the earth as tea.
There is sometimes a stacking of skies;
Amber
On top of pink,
On top of blue,
With pyrite flecks-
But not yet indigo.
And one form rises up out of them;
A baobab moving slowly,
Mushrooming monster,
Exploding exponentially outward.
And at its calloused feet
Are porcelain painted zebras
And soft clay elephants,
Who reshape themselves in the gray murk
Of the water hole-
Which is sometimes blue,
And sometimes sheeted mica shimmering.
Watching quietly, the prince.
Who is still,
(But not exempt!)
Unable to be, but becoming.
Exhausted and exhausting,
Around his furrowed face is a mane
Of technicolor flames.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
; climb incidentally a towering flat
at struggling veneration's rawest berry so scarlet a holly droplet
in manifolds of sage
a sundered drooping door
i'm carefully falling porcelain sheeted hammers
languid health a protein remarkably nascent fronds spun
g,Ol
den denting vine
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
Globally dense, our ailing nation
makes one weep for sheer frustration
thoughts and dreams grow numb.
Tech-addled students scroll on phones,
‘midst scent of android pheromones,
wafting digital dumb.
Pop-culture, narcissist unkind
dispenses with the human mind
which, failing further, falls behind
the grimly global curve.
We read, in writing on the wall
arithmetic’s impending fall
while numbers loiter in the hall
to get what they deserve.
ENQUIRY, tagged as D.O.A,
a sheeted stiff, is wheeled away
her mourners left to grieve.
entitled maiden, full of sass,
LIBERTY begs a bathroom pass
her bladder to relieve.
When zit-faced rebels run the show
the dismal ratings plummet low;
a vulgarized cartoon.
Descending to unfathomed levels,
Ignorance applauds her devils
calling out their tune.
PATRIOTISM, tarred and feathered
headless, claws its cage untethered
foul, unloved, unfree:
Another casualty of time
which fell for want of noble rhyme;
to water FREEDOM’s tree.
CURIOSITY, half asleep,
now stirs and murmurs from the deep
uninterested, untaught.
She grows yet duller in her ways
returning to her ocean daze,
(her schools of fish uncaught).
HISTORY, dormant, lies in dust
a narrative no man can trust
a book no scholar reads.
Events unstudied as designed
wherein the heart of humankind
for want of context, bleeds.
DEMOCRACY degenerates
until God wills and activates
a nation’s drive to learn.
Curricula will be made void;
disheartened teachers unemployed,
their wisdom fit to burn.
You think the past was less obtuse?
Less prone to youthful thought-abuse?
Perhaps… back in the day.
And though it may have been the same.
this poet opts to place the blame
on digital delay.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.
Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.
Archibald Lampman
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
I am delirious, lingering from days
frayed at both ends, especially the head
and knotted in the middle, a rope tightened
round the heart, squeezing beats out
in stops and starts, oh but this is how
we play the game, it's sweaty palmed,
brow furrowed fun, with far too many clocks
cold halls to walk, amongst holy ghosts
tearing through white sheeted rooms, they haunt
or sometimes they bring invisible healing
placing flowers in colorful rings
and garlands circling round the bed
and in the night, only blue white light
to fill a room, basked in love
a tattered heart to mend
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Your words seem often sheeted
by waves of mystique
Like sand by the ocean
out on the beach.
They pour over your lips
like waterfalls in your head
They come crashing into pools
of what's already been said
I'd love to dive in deeper
submerged in sadness and lies
To bathe in your holy spirit
like an infant first baptized
Your eyes are like white wine
they help to calm my nerve
Your nerves are like explosions
they catch my eyes as they deserve
Your skin sets my skin on fire
whenever we don't touch
I feel the flame encase me
like a casket forged in rust
Your frame holds the painting
that is your beautiful soul
Your hands, unlike my burdens
could only be mine to hold
Your assets only intrigue me
you carry yourself so well
You drape yourself in clothes
to cover your beautiful self
Your modesty is mesmerizing
your humbleness deserves merit
You carry your lust inside you
like a bomb waiting to be lit
The words you've whispered to me
shoot contradictions like a gun
Contradictions like my ability
to write love poems to no one
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
Falls of the liquid clear
rushing and crashing
transparency diamond sheeted
beyond a glimmer of another world
lies hope of an eye seen
Bewildering beat within
skips in song
thirsty I lavishly drink it in
beauty perceived in a moment quenched
as I survey the tumbling tears of creations cries
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 1:28 PM UTC
To Garryowen upon an ***** ground
Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip,
With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,
As in the tumult of a witches' round.
Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.
Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.
The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip.
High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.
The music reels and hurtles, and the night
Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light
Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused
With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,
Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags
Look on dispassionate--critical--something 'mused.
***
The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all, I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.
Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once . . . long ago. But now, the story goes,
The gods are dead.
It must be true. The world, a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:--
'The Gods are Dead!'
993
Failure
Illuminates
And plagues
Our accomplishments
"The first bullet
To **** by your head
Is the scariest,"
The general said.
"All the rest
Are just like
Old girlfriends
You might catch sight of
At the bar."
When we take our own life
Into our own hands and
Rely on the sincerity of others,
We are playing a game
More dangerous
Than Russian Roulette.
I take for granted
What I have
I dare not to see my
Many blessings
For fear of feeling
Unworthy
The walls here
Do not leak and
There are no cockroaches
Scurrying underneath
My one sheeted bed
The air I breath
Is not nuclear and
There is no
Secret Police
Pounding on my door
I am alone
To do
What I please
When I please
The only rapping
That echoes around me
Are from the hand's of
An unknown creativity
Who put
This desire
In me?
Who cursed me
To never be
Satisfied or
Free?
How long have the shackles -
Rusted and red orange in the sun -
Been strapped to my wrists and
Gripped around the bases of my ankles?
But
To abandon my irons
Would be to abandon
Myself
Leave myself
In the desert sun -
The soul begging for
Water, for food, for
Shelter from the beating flares of sunlight
Where there are questions
There are answers
Where there are answers
There is rest for some
For others
They dutifully
Choose not
To recognize
Outside my windows the
Street workers with their hammers
And their sledgehammers pound away
To the mad rhythm of this hustling city.
History has not forgotten them,
But it wants to.
History wants to forget us all.
History wants to re-write itself.
We want to write ourself to be
The divinely chosen Men of the World.
We will never be,
We will forever be human.
To reach the heavens
Would mean death.
And death
Lasts longer
Than a lifetime
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC