It is dark here: little can be heard from
what came of the mind—if only it were
pleasures and passions linked to a tempest,
a bewitchment of the soul, to take what has
sunk to the bottom of the spirit and has yet
to understand the wretched disdaining lingerment--
I have thought upon stars, pieces of our oceanic
universe bathed in the waters of closing black--
too dense to see through, and yet we devour the
skies with our own thoughts, take ideas and ideals
to a native mind and let it wander free.
And yet I cannot help but weep, nor smile
or stay as a statement of indecision--
whilst the seas still do their constant waves,
as empty as what we place upon the whole--
his name, her name, our name shall be unknown.
All shall fade—into that of the first thought to
the last, and yet I wait to be devoured, as yet
I am not dead nor death has chose to take me
along the journey beyond the body.
I heard a voice that spoke from within, fatal
descending and like dust too hard to hold
together as a something but this is a muse that
has soared and spread her wings, how the crowd
only sees the ruins of what has come from time.
The flattering of emotions—for what sake is this
delicious lust brought with lavish form, as nothing
in this English air does consist of freshness and
demand—beneath all that is of skies, and planets
to the ends of roots—ere not I know a coming
whilst outward the human neighbour knows little
of that spark of cedar-wood within the eyes,
far from it, oriental, covered as a distance of difference.
To bands of brothers and packs of wolves, and scented
women thro’ Yet all these has in such a tide, a passion
for the half-open scar to that of the red that wounds--
fed with thee, ah I know of lying alone, whitest petals
upon yielding plucked too early, yet they treasure the taste.
Tell me of the summers, and of autumn, soft hums and low
voices singing, whilst slumbering I lull—of soft pauses--
drawn from each expression deep; I cannot veil my sight
as nothing but light comes thro’ like the sun calls to the
earth still a dark side exists away and cold, fixed in a rotational
need of depression to the subjective bounds of bursts with
happiness, tell me what is it like to sit and feel nothing, but
understanding nature and the thought of nothing more than
the basic independence of a gaze.
”And we sat by the water”.