Saturday, November 27, 2010

three hundred years of vexatious sleep

My will is salt and vinegar,

I have no excuses,
They are as embarrassing as pendulums,
As the sands reign down,
Holding your dry flowers as symbols of memorabilia,
Our lasting truths,
Our lasting faith.

I don’t know if I can be saved,
Or if in fact I choose to.
My aviary wings have been so denied,
To function, I have shown wino’s that
They are helpless,

I’ve been living here for three hundred years,
Flying blind tasting blood and tears,
While withered leaves fall,
Throughout the seasons past,
As life is ever lasting,
Like bearing pain, perhaps…

She drills through me like hurricane,
And leaves her path of debris,
I can see, but no longer achieve,
What I began to believe.
I need to sleep,
Presently, or forever.

I am complete and dried up,
I’ll do this your way.
I’ll finish it your way til seasons past ,
For less, or no bother.
I envision a union alas.

I have even left for a while…..


veraicon reality said...

traveling the same road it seems? that once magical and obsessive road, the one where we stand in the path of something more destructive than we care to admit.
could it be?

Anonymous said...

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Blue Heeler said...

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Blue Heeler said...

They will take aid, they will take refuge and they will return in spades. But will they ever give with little or no sense of exclusiveness?

Blue Heeler said...

who reads this crap anyway?

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