And We Are Gone

... And be one eye , one soul as the world recedes , gone , away far climbs. Vanished like a driven cloud. He is merely flesh and blood Reality ; slaughterhouse stumbling through script typed in selfless pursuit. Wanting only quickened wit & Pupil's Needs. Mortal simian image, which we , the living only feel and bear and tremble and are gone. Upon my Darling's beaming eyes The summit of everest slurs into a bog or quagmire , deep and dank. So gazing with the boldness which prevails love, and peace and gracious mirth. with a voice less loud though its joys and fears show wool in dissembled colours shine. As the passers by near us drew the Need to know from our stares, going further... " O Merciless Lady & Vulture Poet when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall I will turn my bewildered eyes out of soil and darkness , to run through every alternate scene Where I used to play on the green in goodly colours gloriously arrayed. And a voice less loud brought me breathless to Aphrodite , throned in flowers beyond this pale picture ; be the dream. Roaing with laughter as a fallow deer is clear cut through the sun seen peering out the skull. Alls vast lilliputin language cannot describe an Echo of the Time, after the rainbow. Then , as if some strange mystery aware that you should remember & be sad. Now memory feels itself grow weak , I can not endure, I am merely flesh and blood " "it will be found once more , I say to thee with furtive flagons , white and red. Now get back retreat, depart." She of the tribunal did command great at sea, and the Heaven. From some touch of pity which may still restrain she let him pass. A leaf fallling softly at my feet, but I saw it was not as thought , only inked. Falling in Heaven's crescendo. Climax always brushing distance out of reach. As to long panoramas of Visions, of my faith , I'd give whole to see the architect of my dreams once more. I am waiting here for thee, flesh and blood , merely. Ne'er to be found again. I am like a flag unfurled in space. Oh ! Lost to Her and all thy race to wit faces of scorn , stuttering ends this morn ; O Weak Heart. I long to rise. Never being a Poet of God's making , laughter to thy lips, wandering to sigh among mortal men dust ; shall return to dust. As the storm cries everynight and those that know me confirm that it is thus. Easing a new epilogue , tremble and we are gone...