Thursday, April 27, 2017

9452. THE MENDICANT

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.

No comments: