I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Find what fascinates Stop at nothing to find out Why it compels you
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
What is more fragile and ephemeral? Lungs laugh lithe little worlds into light life Hollow and shining, fleeting, temporal
Growth makes things fragile: Cells, civilizations and Most of all, egos
Is reality A story about itself That we read and write?
The hour of serene exhaustion comes With the truth that all of your mad striving Has yielded little profit, and vast sums
Beware the union Of obstinate ignorance And smug confidence
Intoxicated and heeding a god Divine speech rolling off a mortal tongue In the form of paradoxes most odd And gnomic riddles, whispered, screamed or sung
Here is the story Of my narrow escape from Your small, cruel heart
Why don't we marvel At sensation's eulogy For what has been lost?
Somnambulist, swanning through silk silence Invisible is your map of the night Listen to sleep’s pure, phantom poetry Egress from the mundane, it promises
Imagining things I may be, but you Appear to be ignoring other eyes And gazing just at me, as if on cue; Your ancient gaze shreds my modern disguise
Your valuables Are worthless when compared to Your moral values
