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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.