ramp

Rampant pungent whirligig

Pungent art of sophistry

That spins around the me like this

That fakes the night

The awe that gives

So sombre is what some might call it

In me it is the aegis still

The marking of no pleasantry

But still my soul

That cries again

Believe me when it comes again

Believe me when i cry and mourn

For in this awe

This awefulness

This wayward means of pleading long

A man lies torn and full again

Will spin for time

And like an endless gyre of god

Lie restless till it rests in me

there is a holiness to the hearts affections that you know nothing about

 

is this love

it is the ochre

of a blue

far bluer

than the early eve

it is common for me

anticipating

the wait for cloud

and the seeping of moon

as it sings about the new day

if this is the living of it

then i am a man alone

on a couch

waiting for feet

and tempered breath

i think often of it

that in this death

i might be song

and the newness

of a sonnet

read for the first time

into the heart of one

i look up

cannot see

but for this bentness

this aroma of blue

butterflies for sleep

if i eyes closed

look up

i only feel the sun

and its involuntary

ways that declare

anithesis

for weeping declare

for we and the sky

it is only in this god gazing

that i see the envelope

of grace and its winds

that seduce the night

and creep into the way

of another tide

i look upon the blue

and see but it

when i look away

i see but it

when i am dead

i do not see but it