Post by Cy Skywalker on Jan 8, 2007 7:41:38 GMT -5
Verily, I see you
standing with your whatevercolor eyes in this lake of tears.
Though tempting, the conviction of my selfishness
has not occupied me completely;
but the sleek tawny hand on my shoulder
is making a fulcrum of my child’s mind.
Passing the lovers’ stories, and
--independently--seeing you (return),
I was not entirely untouched.
But you did not dangerously, riskfully
breathe words (music) in my ear--
you simply handed the roses of the age, over,
without sonnet or backtale or daretotrust.
More words have been wasted on him,
(though my journal is filled with you)
and I always found the words or leaders hiding the truer, lasting
notion of love. I feel in the true places of my mind that
pity for you, so sorry--
And yet my point of view still stands
like he stands on the shore of my halfconciousness.
See even this
has turned into Plot-fuel (though I’ve never made this
connection before) before it let me speak.
While I do not even know if I need
to tell you this, something whispers
of Better Love out “there”.
One left me behind once, you know. Words have
been wasted on him too and, even now, they approach.
This is why I hesitate, knee deep in worry for you
shoulder-deep in...the escapism of the lonely artist.
Aren’t we a beautiful breed. Aren’t we
sure that beauty is only ever departing or beginning,
or fantasy.
So that our victims (you, sorry) have no hope at all, and neither do we.
With face to the hazeless sun, I bask in the tragedy. Its footlights lit Shakespeare’s path.
I know we can be happy reading him (playing on the worldstage) alone.
As long as some notes escape in the meanwhile, and turn into sorrowful songs... .
standing with your whatevercolor eyes in this lake of tears.
Though tempting, the conviction of my selfishness
has not occupied me completely;
but the sleek tawny hand on my shoulder
is making a fulcrum of my child’s mind.
Passing the lovers’ stories, and
--independently--seeing you (return),
I was not entirely untouched.
But you did not dangerously, riskfully
breathe words (music) in my ear--
you simply handed the roses of the age, over,
without sonnet or backtale or daretotrust.
More words have been wasted on him,
(though my journal is filled with you)
and I always found the words or leaders hiding the truer, lasting
notion of love. I feel in the true places of my mind that
pity for you, so sorry--
And yet my point of view still stands
like he stands on the shore of my halfconciousness.
See even this
has turned into Plot-fuel (though I’ve never made this
connection before) before it let me speak.
While I do not even know if I need
to tell you this, something whispers
of Better Love out “there”.
One left me behind once, you know. Words have
been wasted on him too and, even now, they approach.
This is why I hesitate, knee deep in worry for you
shoulder-deep in...the escapism of the lonely artist.
Aren’t we a beautiful breed. Aren’t we
sure that beauty is only ever departing or beginning,
or fantasy.
So that our victims (you, sorry) have no hope at all, and neither do we.
With face to the hazeless sun, I bask in the tragedy. Its footlights lit Shakespeare’s path.
I know we can be happy reading him (playing on the worldstage) alone.
As long as some notes escape in the meanwhile, and turn into sorrowful songs... .
