Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The Moon Has A Thousand Arms


The art of murmur is a theory
Repeat the name for a blind moon,
One with odd lead for a heart
And a thousand arms attempting to forget.
See the brilliant darkness at noon,
The black face, holy corona
A sun of no sun, cold, lost in the storm of experience
Who owns hope?
Our lady of quantity on the hill
Of revelation, looking out for nearby seekers
All of whom will fall
As they draw nearer to what might have been.

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