by, 10-25-2010 at 10:35 PM (1061 Views)
The mark of past tense verb
Tis' a scar that affects our life-line verse
And even the trite small-talk under blue skies.
When everything is under-sea
Painted with a white landscape
Of non-time, non-memory
Those moments we forget
Become the futures neglect.
So silent a lake-pond spring is
In the summer it is almost rancid
But in winter it is frozen deep into tedium
And atoms hibernate in stillness.
An easy way to leave,—
But time is our father's present
And our mother is our memory
While you yourself are empty space.
Is there a way for spring to swing the seasons
So that it need no frost of winters bite nor
Uncivil clutter of summer's stifling disease?
May we pray to the skies so that they leave us no sign of sun
Or smell or rain?
Or the mathematical formula of the gods is too apocryphal for the skin of mortals to soak into?
May the rest be silence.