I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Let us be grateful Even terrible stories Must come to an end
By D. J. Reddall4 months ago in Poets
Here are the words, nervous about meaning As little as the mute mote in the beam Here is the dust, beautifully gleaming
Make creation itself your strange subject Involve yourself in its old mystery Conventional wisdom blithely reject Paint potential as actuality
Dehumanizing Insults invariably Become boomerangs
Time and gravity, her embarrassed foes Brushed out of being by an outstretched arm The shocked, arboreal audience knows That paint can preserve anyone from harm
Perhaps the new law will not come at all Our prophet may be mad, or sore deceived; How shall we live? What is the protocol?
The glittering sludge Could drown human creations Teach them how to swim
Some eyes make blindness seem impossible Reading life down to the final footnote How good it feels to be so legible You know the twists of my story by rote
Frost is a language Nature's complete lexicon Winter's tongue translates
So much complaining Spending your freedom to keep It from running out
I enter your temple with trembling dread Your priests and priestesses glower at me; Their language does strange things to my poor head
Time cruelly dismembers created things All mortal beings will face their demise Our task is diligent remembering Those who forget will never join the wise
