roving and wondering
what went wrong...
awry, askance, avarice
for solace,
and then the slide off
of an elliptical moon-
them not me...
They want sense out of
nonsense...
I laugh and writhe
to a comical find,
bodies are not night
of the living death.
A moment , a flicker of firing
and a nap...
oh, all the world could be
summed up in a map
and sown to cover; a featherbed of fret...
Pithy and poor pithy me,
is shrieked in quicksand corners,
pointing a glued finger to toddlers who
merely ask, Why?
The sap of the past in dismissive,
says it's not really so...
An antichrist who dares question,
bold faced and unabashed
in the drinking of an innocent
fountain of thirsty question...
I'll not be condemned
by a chorus of dead scholars
or those who seek answers in ashes...
Your Phoenix has no wings to fly...
it's all the same to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment