Tuesday, November 29, 2016


I see these notions
Grown full and formed
Formed of quiet,
Formed of calm,
Formed of torrid and terse.
Opened at the ending
And ended at the daring.
Booming in and onto
The copse of idea
Grown strong and stout
From then to next.
It becomes blatant in the body
To remain coveted
Covered, coiled.
This pendulum of self
Tick tocking ever diligently
The to and fro of which
Descends never
On any one spot worth trusting.
To be moss-grown is unworthy
This lustre, this love,
This life-
Be mine for the taking
And mine for the giving.

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