Thursday, April 27, 2017


The private penance of taking 
from you, much like a beggar in these 
medieval streets. Flagellants and moaners, 
all those ex-king's-horsemen bewailing 
their fates. The moated walls and the
old solid bricks are all gone. We have
garments now thicker than that. 
And that is all that's left.
Such, such, how even language has
grown downward : we speak for
moments of message but have lost
the verbal elixir of paramount love.
Enforcement, and the sharing of
presence. I find this globe too lonely.
Find for me again, the ancient oak.

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