Grey and then grey, another wet spring day
again, again
the infinite recursions
(maze of sameness and a feckless Minotaur)
spiraling away from stillness,
deaf to the echo of being already there
again, again.
I think the poet sits on the stoop of the world
whittling his bones into whistles,
wondering
is it the music of the spheres or tinnitus in his ears?
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Comments
"whittling his bones into whistles"
and 'internal geometries'...for what's worth, your kind of clewless sounds purdy interesting...
like catch liked: "whittling his bones into whistles" - sometimes I believe that's all there is, Godhelp me. But a nice heavy rain does drown out the tinnitus.
of course, that line the others quoted, the wonderful violence and wasting away, until we are left with nothing or a masterpiece
in your case, i doubt most seriously (and will have words with anyone who thinks otherwise), that it would ever be tinnitus
the same whistle
in same witless silence
Theseus wittled and then
forgetting to raise proper sail
suffered the same fate all father's
and mother's sons suffer
to be mistaken for
the guilty other
to late to be
forgiven
ever?
DB ~ Imagine the birds chirping a Shepard scale.
Vanessa ~ Aww....you're so sweet to me. Your comment made me think of a song and now I can't get it out of my head. Yes, Let's Get Lost:
Let's get lost, let them send out alarms
And though they'll think us rather rude
Let's tell the world we're in that crazy mood.
Inverted ~ Lovely sail-shaped comment. One has to make it out of the maze before one can hoist even the wrong color sail - and I'd still need a clew.