I – Thin Frond of Daylight
I.
It is the time to live
The clouds are as orisons to the great eye
The eagle sings the song of it’s soul
As audible as glass.
There are men about now in the haze,
in itself anything but a large bum
Some small need to sell things
Codified in what we say is “spam!”
Too long to live the day is almost spent
And is it it? Or is it not it?
The day is late, and I slumber
While men work sawing horses in the distance.
Can you sleep small?
Can you dream less?
Beside the stars dry blood drips
Before the starting heart of hands that farthing farted.
I did it to something
But I can’t remember when.
Great onto small away,
Want which witch is the witch which
I witched into the back of the ditch.
Wants -- pulling of pants –
Oh sick star – Vision of Supreme!
Without in itself back!
My pants are caught on the ray
Dear Abby, I think I may have found my morals
-- my Heart! --
And someone’s sock.
The Suites
The most classy, organised, literate general discussion guild on Gaia, with lots of friendly, welcoming members.
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