Aquarian Night
The flesh of night gripped the darkened trees in platitude,
And hell was washed from there silken boughs by raw imagination’s wealth,
Burning deep in the fervent immortality of thought,
To where did the golden runners of Ulysses disappear,
Far into the madness of the Olive groves,
Did they go as ghosts of a thousand years to witness Gethsemane,
Here in ink where the prophet’s heart dies,
A soul is born to inspiration’s weft,
To pass eons of critical priests insane,
Come to the fold free thinkers outside,
Come to the weave where the artists reside,
Come thread your blood in our tapestry;
Come to the place where the plastic smile died
Come; I want you to come
By David Nickle Read
All Rights Reserved By The Author
21:50
21/11/2017
Copyright © David Nickle Read | Year Posted 2017
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