10
(1 votes)
| Rating | Rated by |  | | 10 | FireFly747 | |
You must login to vote
|
|
|
You get used to seeing in silhouette
Giving names,
Not to colours
But feelings
You exist between
Different shades of red
The relief-map world
Tired and unfamiliar
The strange geography of sleep
Where outlines absolve themselves
Of yesterday’s crude solidity.
The funeral procession
Strikes defiantly North
Losing the profane sun
In definition’s ending
The frontiers come meet
Their dead half way
Receive them with a sky
Wide open.
------
The human race, the only race I know where everybody loses.
|
being alright
