And at this hour. I know the answer. The answer as it is shown to me. Further from my pen. Further from my hand. Than the clouds at somerset. These days the halo hangs low. Drooping somewhere between twilight and inertia. On a day when the details don't matter and all existential trivalties are far removed from any reality that may visit me. These days torment. These days sullen. These days beautiful. No dauphin in sight. A deserted jet stream. Haunted reverie. My cat jaded and tearing at her whiskers. Oh child. Oh harmony. Vibrato and harmonics. A child's wavering timber - the dulcets. Walk away. Wake a minute. Roll and carry a rondelay. Months upon months upon days laid down in education. Each song, every lesson, moments, snapshots, memories. Too much significance for one with such great reverance. Turn away. Insignificant. Unnoticed. Turn away. Shelter. A permanence.
No comments:
Post a Comment