XXXI.
A tragedy,
is but a comedy,
left to rot.
XXXII.
Poetry is but two things:
To explain the profound simply,
Or explain the simple profoundly.
XXXIII.
There is beauty in our meaninglessness,
Purpose in this pointlessness;
Are mistakes are but jokes
Told by the shortest fragments of time,
Our achievements but a breath,
Or the blink of an eye:
All this pain is just for fun.
XXXIV.
Regret is a despair
As dense as a deathbed—
Empty;
Yet never vacant,
Hollow;
But ever heavy,
Terrible,
Though very tender—
My eyes could use a rest.
XXXV.
The face:
The last place
Emotions go.
XXXVI.
And so they say,
This mind comes in twos:
A pendulum of marrow,
As sun or as moon—
But mine came in halves;
Orbiting rocks of saturnine,
Torn about hope or harrow,
By the void of sanguine—
And my head aches.
XXXVII.
Resentment—
A rot flesh hung by thread,
Over a bottomless abyss;
A path very well tread,
But never quite finished.
XXXVIII.
Happiness is a high,
Sturdy and still—
But high as a ditch,
Dressed as a hill:
Still beautiful a climb,
As woeful the spill.
The fluids of joy,
From their overflown pitch.
XXXIX.
And, oh! so I dream,
In a covenant of strings;
And forgeries of fabric,
For reverie and reality,
Have seemed but one.
XL.
I saw through the eyes,
Of a night owl, and flew,
With daydreamer wings.
XLI.
These sounds of mine,
Come fro as worldly
As your ears,
That taste their cadence.
And this voice of mine,
Moreover—you could touch;
Fest on its rasp and depth,
Like a delicacy.
But these words of mine,
Are of somewhere else,
These you can hear.
Nigh, though nay silencable.
My tongue of mind,
And lips of matter,
Make song of hell,
And dance of high water.
XLII.
To walk with the wind of truth,
Is to oppose its foes—their vain,
though fronted effigies of force,
Turn that trail less than tender, and
raise the stupor of doubt as steep as,
A docile draw bridge in sleep—but they,
Tire,
Truth does
not.
XLIII.
These memories, these memories
Perhaps they aren’t too fond of me,
From dusk to day, it seems I see,
On the horizon of what was or what could be,
Of the bluer skies and the bluest sea,
The mattress of memory that my dreams do sleep,
Their bright brown eyes appear weary and weak,
And remind me, with knowing sigh and gentle weep,
This will all look different, within a week
Or so.
If it looks,
at all.
XLIV.
The wind walks, as if its got a place to be,
Nodding to all it passes with knowing;
It may take you with it, if you please—
Though not a step with slowing.
XLV.
The ceiling is dancing, jealous of the light,
My feet make love to the ground—
Everything is a purpose to this pleasure;
My voice reverberates inside me
Like a disagreement between steel and iron,
Over where to go next
when I speak.
XLVI.
I turn my head and my eyes that weigh
Like the mountains that I write of
Yet have never stood upon.
XLVII.
And in this race of mind and words,
I feel the weight of what need be heavy,
And the flight of what need be light,
I can take no wrong lead:
Every step— a foot bound a mile
And every mile bound a kiss of light,
From the warm lips of January to
The sweet teeth of December.;
It will all make you feel something.
XLVIII.
On the beaches of the boundless,
My words are grains of sand,
My minds a sea of magma—
On this plain of glass,
Here I stand.
XLIX.
This universe of yours,
Every nebula of thought
And star of hope—
They look a lot similar
To one another,
I’m sure they do.
L.
It is not the potential we possess,
But that which we may never match,
That storms our hearts,
And salts the seas of our souls—
Perhaps we oughtn’t
be more than this.