Isn’t the heart still only a seed
shallowly planted in the body
which dies to feed it that
its first drink in the cold fire
be sweet and juicy
if to have and to relinquish the power
to enforce fictions
on oneself is freedom
to decay how deny
angels you haven’t seen
when history you haven’t either
the stage is small
the seed’s soliloquy
runs on
for pages and pages.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment