An ash is at her every root and one is at your every end. The press of wisdom's swift pursuit, an ash is at her every root. She burns to girls of ill repute with remedies time does not mend - an ash is at her every root and one is at your every end.
Poetry: December 2004 Archives
We don't bedizen time and space But stride apart, dissolve, erase. Effaced negation's fashion drawn Not overlooked, what's undergone. The pseudo-smiles caked in chrome-- He drives me there, but never home. We're caffeinated drunks without The strength of will to seek us out. Proximity may lie outright; Unbalance sleeps with him at night. And never strength within I meet To tie it tight. Rings incomplete. We choose amiss, and miss select What's wrong is right. The void correct. So soft, so near the shell he speaks-- We're measured now, in days and weeks. I hide beneath this dark marquis: He sets the bait, but not for me.
(Originally posted August 19, 2004, before I switched content management systems.) Could then, a weary soul try to appease a mind gentler, and ease that which upsets? The wonder at projected silhouettes Illusions of these common vagaries? Now forced astride by lingering regrets and erring only in intent to tease the dilute taste of blood lost underseas in desperation, clings to but vignettes. Romantic notions left behind, forgone Perfection past in both the mind and heart Where truth is lost in justly lives withdrawn. But savage children ever seek beyond To seek what mothers care not to impart To love, to wish, to reach, to pass it on.