for what they don’t have?
Only the saddest.
in being sad
there is an awesome convolution
a mountain rises out of the ocean
a wind slivers skin to the bone
there is a bareness
un-akin to any other known
A cold and tortured
Doors to your presence close.
I see them as moving does;
there is a necessity to grow
and there are curtains.
but loves are candles
that never blow out, and
deep in the night
dimly lit passages
still show that little bit, enough
for a projection–
I put that shard on display here once
and then had to leave the room- I
was ignoring food.
Gods above, I am happy for you.
The clouds parted on your future
and there was as much love as there
although I had nothing to do with it
If only I could sing as David did!
as boy, so man – ruler of his land
(And how he played his hymns so good)
had put his heart
in the mud
Shout out! props to brooklyn
To the desert
where my song lives
when I went out pursued by the living
and ended up living, pursued by the dead
Grace and tidings to Wesphalia,
magical land I’ve never seen—
I’m this close to imagining it,
This close to placing my BEING there
Oh wide world of lines and orange rinds
I clip your growth like toenails!
I am clued-in to what your grail is,
and its not the same as the one I drink from now;
Yours is sweet,
and mine is chance-y,
but the nutrition completes the feeling,
and I’d rather swill nature
than the output of any building.
Come, clasp my grail hand!
I have recently awakened
And my heart is only now
shucking the grave-
there’s so much space to fill
and so much that remains, that
I must drain my heart to the dregs
to keep it savory.
I will keep singing and praising
hoping that one day, from the dust,
my hymns will shape me;
A living, breathing, man
replete in his need