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July 06, 2007


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the weeping prophet

Such a man is this one of whom you write,
of whom the gods did speak when,
soft upon a winter's hill, the
thunders cried a moth's last song...

gleaming, glittering, glistening in the dew of day's end.

What now do his words portend?

A bitter tale, a silent kiss,
a time of bliss unending and

a mirror cracked in smokey lines.

I'd journey to the end of time, but
all I'd find is this, and you, and

testaments of victories
vainglorious and forgotten.

Let this Larry beat his drum:
our scrum shall tarry in

perpetual yearning.
Our learning, interrupted,

split in twain by bits of rhyme,
the time in which we dwell, some
spot upon new-charted maps,
consumed in self and fire.

My desire for this aching beam,
an open eye across the world in
which a tongue is lashing, splasing
tears across horizons,

swashing buckles through a memory
of lives lived before time.


My word, do you have a link to the author? Or other works by the same author? Homer for an unheroic age?


Wild guess, but sounds like written when drinking...   :-)


Nope, intoxicated, but not drunk.

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