I pawned my eyes
to come to this favored opening
a wall so ill, so high with neither corner nor
darkness, where echo drowns in the dark sand
I lugged luck from harm across these bright waters
and made myself now elderly in this impatience
secondhand voices answer
from within a watering brain
it was a book of holes which described me
the former moments pass away
avoiding found wakefulness
and picked from ire
to keep all this intensity
from wanting your words.
according to the floor, the
stones never fail
they outstay honesty and being.
their blood is on the night air -they get their
companions from certainty
and walk sinewless among
we will grasp the differences in failure
and look for the price of welcome
we will put down our arms and
because the only thing left
is the end of all flesh
and the debt due.
Madam Time withholding
character in a hat
death in mind and voices through doors
amateur music making all this desire
an opinion of worship
surely god is knowledge
ranting, dreaming, virtuous.
All these moody peasants
for clues to perfection
air made of stone
its purpose eviction
these tenants of privilege.
*W.B. Yeats- "Sailing To Byzantium."