Catamite
01-21-2012, 08:51 AM
When at the near end
With the beginning long forgotten,
We will with regret declare how swiftly time runs;
Anxiously hearing the thunder of its passing
Remorsefully seeing the charter of its passing,
And knowing the run of the water rushing,
But not feeling the water upon our hands.
The thought of some sudden moment will go
And the thought of the thought too will flounder.
A body ever more lustful may loom,
It’s wanting limbs; its places of beauty.
It will with a flutter perch and then flee
And collapse into a choke of gas in the wanton air
At the shrill of the bell, or
The kettle reaching its crisis,
The steam breaking in hiss
The images of unredeemable beauty.
And so we sit with tea to the warm despair
To try to say all that we wish to say
That has been said but a myriad of times before
Better then in our regression could we echo.
The reddened autumn that rubs its flesh upon the winter,
The pale winter that rubs its muzzle on spring’s hind
As season to season curls about its company
Each draws in to death the essence of its successor
And then drops with a final howl.
We watch a red leaf of autumn in faith
That time will turn for to be green again;
We will be stilled, and by stillness kept
Weep may some in the fashion that we wept,
Yet in perfect turn will time be
As we are infinitesimal fibres of an infinite sea.
And so we sit, with tea, to the warm despair
In inward music: to ourselves, and the dead declare
All that which is now too late to say.
With the beginning long forgotten,
We will with regret declare how swiftly time runs;
Anxiously hearing the thunder of its passing
Remorsefully seeing the charter of its passing,
And knowing the run of the water rushing,
But not feeling the water upon our hands.
The thought of some sudden moment will go
And the thought of the thought too will flounder.
A body ever more lustful may loom,
It’s wanting limbs; its places of beauty.
It will with a flutter perch and then flee
And collapse into a choke of gas in the wanton air
At the shrill of the bell, or
The kettle reaching its crisis,
The steam breaking in hiss
The images of unredeemable beauty.
And so we sit with tea to the warm despair
To try to say all that we wish to say
That has been said but a myriad of times before
Better then in our regression could we echo.
The reddened autumn that rubs its flesh upon the winter,
The pale winter that rubs its muzzle on spring’s hind
As season to season curls about its company
Each draws in to death the essence of its successor
And then drops with a final howl.
We watch a red leaf of autumn in faith
That time will turn for to be green again;
We will be stilled, and by stillness kept
Weep may some in the fashion that we wept,
Yet in perfect turn will time be
As we are infinitesimal fibres of an infinite sea.
And so we sit, with tea, to the warm despair
In inward music: to ourselves, and the dead declare
All that which is now too late to say.