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Cyclops 319
Shining tongue the flower is now deathless
A solemn word, golden, stolen from desperate gods
Who are left drunk and blind, trying to trace their steps
Across a bloody nation.
Blinking language the high whores
March toward the night of Europe
Praying in divided languages that remind us of music
The citizen excepts himself from the parade but
Ends up civilized anyway.
He has a telescope that can help him see
The curse of destiny,
He is a born hero who sits silent
Amid the literature of the fallen
The art of anywhere
The music of ghosts.
1 comment:
Beautiful sketches my friend!
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