MyGen
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Wild, blue, and being there are about the only things I am always. I am a poet, I am a foreigner, really, as in: I live 4457.8 miles away from the place I was born. I do not remember my dreams if not for the quality of the shadows they form in the corner of my eyes the next day; irritating, really! as something that I know I am about to forget to do. I have questions, that, as the years pass, I unfortunately tend to answer. Good thing that with age, memory forgets open its gates and with the sorrow of days gone so flee the answers and time it is again to try new solutions, or, at best, form new riddles.
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Pomp and Happenstance @ Edit Red
http://www.editred.com/Uploads/st_76004_Pomp_and_H... Oh God by the thousands namesoh God by the thousands names
and one only finger pointed back at Yourself
You, round, circular,
a vertical vertebra and a blade
without sentiment or doubt
but the transgressing statement
that curves at the sole
uprooting kingdoms and laws
and dissolving the margins
past which, is wine the grout mid You and us,are the words meant for You no more weak
than the strength of mortar,
the unbreaking bending
of the bamboo cane,
the iron sword that twists a people,or the light that penetrates the twilight and shrivels it before exploding from within?You with Your skill of disguise Are balmier, slyer
and far more ferocious
than all of the above
and yet You do not come but
as a gust of wind,
a sigh breathing in efflorescence
the memory of a bell that toll
for resurrectiona game of card
played as a solitaire
or the other way around.
