Mow the lines of treachery: a history bequeathed to thee
and see what we believe we see, to dictate collectivity
But dialects are just a way, to specify a way to pray
To take a god and give it flesh, and to refresh, to take what’s left:
Now inflate to a titan’s height, within the fight, we find our bite,
and bore straight through inheritance, a bonebent way to script a dance
Macabre, macabre! The sailor lands, and speaks all that his fate demands
By standing by an ocean scene, a face struck still, complete, serene
And what more is there left to say, when faces tell a wandered way?
And what more is there left to know, when all of it is simply shown?
In each step of a livid man, his skin burnt to a telling tan
And in his question for some gin, he tells where all that he has been,
And underneath a placid sigh, a timeless cry, and the he dies.
The story is not relevant, for all his strength clearly is spent,
It’s more of what he is a part: a jigsaw piece, a human heart.
6/28/2011
1:27 am
No comments:
Post a Comment