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Jun. 17th, 2010 | 02:44 am

Impossible tale, those budding leaves

            surcease of silence, the brilliant

cloud-begotten fountains shimmering

                        like the fallow field.  Impossible


spring!  But each catastrophe

            of nightfall — a July with Cassiopeia

still blatant in the brightest

                        night; dull dust as uncompromising


calumny to bitter sleep.  The rocks

            and lions hold my voice stillborn.

Happiness, or begrudging vital acceptance,

                        saps all around me, to be distilled


to their insufferable syrup.  I gape

to sing, and find the effort unforgivable.


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Comments {2}


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from: tastyanagram
date: Jun. 17th, 2010 03:43 pm (UTC)

I really like this. You should get together a poetry manuscript, dude.

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(no subject)

from: maple
date: Jun. 17th, 2010 07:55 pm (UTC)

I love this one, dear.

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