As Lazarus

I rise again
To beg, poorly,
For Death.

Fireplace

What for that heart that heeds the eye
When you behind this window spy
Perhaps on some other cold November night
All my warmth in hiding, with streaks of sight
Under cold ash, and coal, and dying tree
Lighting shards that will stab when broken free?
This then for yours which, passing by,
Stopped, and came close, and chose to see
Instead of embers that will fall to sleep
Only a fire that’s buried rather deep.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light!

This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!

I am overwhelmed by inanity, like this post.

Pretty Tale

When you find yourself at the beginning of a narrative, do you tie with remembrance the sound and the fury of your times past?

I often catch my own little narratives stealing through the dark, creeping, crawling, crossing like cunning fugitives into a plot and to-morrow, the last lines of which have been eternally known and sung and fulfilled, while the first ones of which are perfectly beautiful, like perfect truth, and for that reason are never sought for, nor found by doing so.

The road I could still see

Although I'd wished the one I then took
And she with me had likewise stood
Two roads converged in our drying wood
And I, I took the one less understood
To see that it made no difference.

Over a glass of red wine

As you say with a smile that slides

Down to your breasts, and the

Promise of pearls then, to invite

Into burning eyes those heavens left,

Empty lives filled with the noise of laughter.

By and By

Off to what and is to like

When the who of where to make

Vagabond

Lawless in propositions boundless

In velleities

Walking through the ins and ons of days

... .. ...

I feel unsatisfied

On wandering past a dream I had passed

I saw stuck to its stalk a flower sad.

Its only wish, though you would call me mad,

Of all maidens, to see the one most fair,

And trust itself to her tender care.

Wherefore Princess, these rebukes of duty.

Would you I deny a rose its beauty?

Monday Morning

I stopped in my sleep to watch the sun rise
Unceremoniously through streets
That would perhaps be beautiful if they were dirtier;
And saw the careful paradoxes I cleverly resurrected
Like the inevitable metaphor that is tauntingly absent
Slither toward the spent womb of the young whore.
Being too well bred to start a scene
Or make cowardly amends,
I woke and wore my pants and let her lovingly lie