The mind knows in mere whisps and the body incompletely
And each growing disinterest in the world around me involves my sanity
(Whether to keep or lose, I do not know)
God in clouds fogs my lenses
And in fire He makes it hard to breathe
(And though we practice at the breathing it still comes with wicked sensation into our lungs)
Many potions and witch's liqurs I have tried
And begged of them reprieve
And I failed
If He is not seen, what do we see?
If not inhaled, what breathing?
Which is the failure, I beg of thee explain
My lungs or thy breath?
My eyes or thy face?
I await the answers to such questions on pre-summer evenings that involve soiled porch steps
And hope You don't mind too much
And forgive of me my imperfection
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1 comment:
I thought this was my by friend in New York until I read it again tonight. Then I saw it was from you.
You should never stop writing, but you should dedicate to it more. Move out, buy a typewriter, write a screen play, let me be your lead, whatever.
Things will come. Too late for some of our earlier dreams, but they will come. We will find even in old age how to die content.
-Luke
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