With
tongues cigarette minted we lipped
The
blueprints of our disappointments
That
left our songs in mouthfuls trapped,
Our
ingrown teeth red with persistence.
In
the afternoons the soul turns timid.
Ideals
childish coded against the flow,
The
heart’s timpani stride becomes a tired thud
Wise
words lose their attack - crescendo.
We
are nothing but brave peninsulas
Met
only by the pinkish heat of light
That
seasons the muted currents between us
And
dresses the glittered trimmings of the night.
None
of us islands, none free from each other.
Love
is our revolution, not our master.
No comments:
Post a Comment