Xaphedo
Posts: 44
2/27/2014
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Quiet. Down to bones
quite stiff do hear
words not spelled
spoken; I hear
felt near as sobs
sung by cobbles and stones
awoken.
Listen. Rains black
from cones not still.
It rains on the tiles
whistling and young,
it rains on three doors
jarred and knocking,
it rains on one stocking
it roars,
on lamps very vain
mothers of light,
on gravel turned white
rising up in one chain,
it rains on the night
darker,
it rains on the lurker
ashore,
on donnings asleep
or brisk,
on breaths in tryst
the soul unfolds
in awe,
never we saw
those before
were born, he molds,
oh King.
Feel. Rain drops
cold on one side,
winded in whirls
keen in its craze
outside,
leaning aglim
keeping aside
in laze,
on bushes and on spores
on marshes and shores
it rains,
drains in tears
weeps the steps
steady,
steers already
mainly quick,
in rains
thick.
Stop. Deep in thought
drop close, observe
shades not drawn
found; deserve
those sights forgotten
torn by grief and drought
drowned.
Watch. Spits scarce
unfading true silence
terse,
trembling near death.
Draggles in struggle
suddenly plain
stable,
soiled be the stairs
rust rests in wait,
again
it rains.
Unscathed the wares
hid asunder remain
(it rains)
their broker strokes
customers known,
chattering low
begone,
it rains on a hansom
treason to transport
bounces
a hollowed deep hole
sheds few ounces,
soaked a dyed cloak
poor King.
Sing. Of up above
remember the light
envision the wood
your past
love,
desires come bright
at last
forsaken they stood
round unasked,
found unmasked
tauten the soul
the curse of unlife
a toll.
Minds grow worn
of rueful soars,
unsought the drops
echo
and stop.
--
Betrothal To Prosody
«He knows. Why of course, there's no other way. Unless...»
A comfortably unpredictable individual
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