31 Mar 2005

(And now for something completely different — an experimental poem I did years ago. Enjoy (I think).)


Truth perils depth
(where death is the closest
money) to shy
the rushing patterns of
distance light brittles to aim —
blank wisdom was bought.

Enter life the deafening
boredom: she tailors
a sage, heathen fire
to hermetic savor.
Then she screams planets.

What action craves to sting,
ancient dread predestines a
taut plunge, and stills the air
leaven eras to ruse.

While reason bleeds
lies, mutations of blue
fold in unceasing logic.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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