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...
Copyright © Martin Higgins | Year Posted 2011
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