WHERE'S YOUR
LITTLE SPIRIT DISH?
Yeah though I walk through the Valley of
the Shadow of Death...I remember the feeling
of living, of being. More than the rest, I'd
have to acknowledge something keen : myopic
soul-transport through the stars and the legions
of Life. There, there, a Being calls, a trumpet rings,
a swallow hovers on a golden tree.
-
I am not known for what I was, just what I am,
and that all disappears on a dime. Festschrift
runs on, words after words after words, like
canker sores and open wounds on a dying
leper. Yet it all comes down to Nothing.
And, have I mentioned, Nothing?
-
Verisimilitude can drive you mad. Making
wreaths of dreams or rings of smoke won't
do. Hold this harbored hand against the glass.
Yes, and see how cold things really are.
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