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all my life's a waking-dream and my thinking slips and slides as my words range far and wide across the woulds and coulds and mights to here,where angels loathe to go to there,where souls are dying slow and in and over, through and under convoluted navigations puzzled full a universe ragged, tiny, rent asunder lost in my own home and here,confounded by my confutations with my self-made selfish soul and there,to conversations want and mutter with friends known not through all the years to live with death a-circling round a-circling rounda-circling roundthe table with the fatted calf the aimless words, the sickly laugh the kids now grown and wanting more a house with grass grown through the floor an endless road to paint and pave a flowered, beveled, groomèd grave all life is little else but longing a prayer, a dream, a soul unwinding while doubt is rising, death is reaching across amnesic muted lands and living casualties of life of death's own dis-entropic plans scour the looted beauties of earth desperate for morsels of meaning by Ronald L Conte Jr |
© Copyright 1995 by Ronald L Conte Jr
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