THE MENDICANT
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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