Urine soaked crystalline years,
season upon century,
Rabble gravel, rat chit
and the passsing eon
darts between mastodon feet.
Urine soaked crystalline years,
season upon century,
Rabble gravel, rat chit
and the passsing eon
darts between mastodon feet.
you are my left arm
When I read your poetry, I feel as though you are attempting to age yourself drastically. It's a very neat effect. I haven't looked up the title, but this poem makes me feel trapped in something very ancient. Not dead, but forever frozen. Captivating.
"My Soul, do not seek eternal life, but to exhaust the realm of possibility." -Pindar
I looked up the title, pack-rats, eh? That changes my reading slightly of the last line. The feeling of age is still present, but now I'm gathering an image more in line with a disused museum. Reminds me of some photos I saw recently of Old Detroit being renovated.
"My Soul, do not seek eternal life, but to exhaust the realm of possibility." -Pindar
oh like an empty museum at night with rats scurrying about?
Before sunlight can shine through a window, the blinds must be raised - American Proverb
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