WINE AND GATES
like pi** and the wind, we come to this
boredom has a belly for thee
the reach of usurpers and the heat of need
is a clock worth the fastness of a judge of me
never ask for the real thing, the laugh is on a heed
at least when unsure of the obvious
the dust of vagueries and the meat of succinctness
we are who is the risk of neither in the way to disgust
the ache of rhythms of reasons is ours as is a less
hunger for the truth knows no ghost:
the language of crib and steel
is to be a heart of survival, if not liberty that is a host
we are like wayward sheep, that knows the devil by the heel
then and there, the lips of the world came alive
the sound of waters and the bride of salvation was heard
my name, my needs, my neck is next of all to be a minds light
perhaps the regret of solitude was nothing but a defying bird
who came to reasons with a belly full of nothing
to live in the shade of a greater thing of now and never
think the clouds, think the sport of the river, think the breed of coming and going
the taste of the wind is one of an aged tongue to be a lover
that much we know
that much we owe, even in the tread of surmiseal
that much we low, the rigors of possibility to have those
that much we sew, the bid for albeit in the boredom of life's bell's...
the reach of usurpers and the heat of need
is a clock worth the fastness of a judge of me
never ask for the real thing, the laugh is on a heed
at least when unsure of the obvious
the dust of vagueries and the meat of succinctness
we are who is the risk of neither in the way to disgust
the ache of rhythms of reasons is ours as is a less
hunger for the truth knows no ghost:
the language of crib and steel
is to be a heart of survival, if not liberty that is a host
we are like wayward sheep, that knows the devil by the heel
then and there, the lips of the world came alive
the sound of waters and the bride of salvation was heard
my name, my needs, my neck is next of all to be a minds light
perhaps the regret of solitude was nothing but a defying bird
who came to reasons with a belly full of nothing
to live in the shade of a greater thing of now and never
think the clouds, think the sport of the river, think the breed of coming and going
the taste of the wind is one of an aged tongue to be a lover
that much we know
that much we owe, even in the tread of surmiseal
that much we low, the rigors of possibility to have those
that much we sew, the bid for albeit in the boredom of life's bell's...
Comment On This Poem ---
like pi** and the wind, we come to this
like pi** and the wind, we come to this
