Libido Sound
Near the fairest light of the autumn, examining
Our wedding of keepsake photos book, we echoed the souls
On each pose when it was taken in Morningside Height
Back to 1969s.
In pursuit from the side of the St. Church
Crystal's wall, New York was a Paradise! The smiles
Melted away by a lotus ritual-promises seeing
All as the blue dots of the heaven sky.
We were happy back there. Having
Our wetted eyes preaching perfectly on lines,
From the whiten dress and the sailing Hands mine,
In black and tie walking along Harlem's blue!
Turning around, the bridled group;
With its ordinary and gossip smiles
Across their faces. From the one
Hundred minutes, Priest Toms told us
All sickness and glows would be gone.
Worldly all had passed by. The cloudless sky,
The long, long spring day has started
To shadow off. And we see on each thing,
Our moon-mind peaks dark! I was a jazz singer that time.
It's that each time we see these photos
Before our eyes the matured smile
Is just a hanging dream.
How the savor years, the white branches
Of ideas and words, could possible
Have accumulated too many springs ahead?
Begin to hang down our energy, scattering
Here and there, which runs completely
Out of sight.
And now, it inlaid within a bitter
Eyebrow. Without the moist moonlight
On how it has begun.
Having seen the photos at least
For a few minutes or so, we behold the new panorama.
Nothing fallen off into the thick
And dark spring. Because oh yes!
Because we are already there.
Copyright © George Zamalea | Year Posted 2012
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