Wednesday, February 17, 2010

we shiver under quiet depths
with hues of azure and iron
some yellowed silence
and an infant, a demeaning death
where we had fallen into a
wandering earth, or hell
so far gone,
in a scarred atmosphere/unknown
but yet, a protection.

some gliding movement
of towers,
two by two,
and softest fabric, spun between our fingers,
as the cradle of a child
loses its balance and vanishes,
so we are left to flicker into non-existence,
or-- total existence,
whichever is more fitting
to our deep, deep selfishly inclusive souls.

forgive us of our innate curiosities,
of a joyous monument,
of a forest, annotated-
and even as the harp's strings
melt into glass,
our hands play on;
a tortuous morning
to a greatest age.

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