If I consider the Stars:
a smattering of dust, and
Painter's pensive graze---
whirling forth
with violent zest;
I see tidal surges and,
multicolored halo
in your eye, your lips
breaking dawn
by Orion's arrow--
If all were but faces,
how many are sirens
singing the Song of myself
between whom I sail,
songs and lyre of prophetic incantation
songs of masquerade
songs of pittance
swaying this way, that
to which I say: "Dare not!
I, see through the lies
caught not in the cries
of femme fatale,"
they know not of intellect
but of misshapen deed;
--in the last hour
by dying breath,
and gentle penitence,
no more would
any answer
with frequencies
the same
as you and I,
rare
alone
against
the sky.
YOU ARE READING
Your Hands, Infinity: A Collection of Poetry
PoetryA collection of poetry for the Soul, for the Spirit, of the Cosmos, and of the Universal, of the Divine and our Consciousness, of a Friend and a Lover, to open a window in the heart and set ourselves free. Having been inspired by many visionary poet...
