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THE FRONTIER

It is as if I strangely sit between unfoldment and the pit turn the heart and bend the lip of ageless silent sun and trees of passing pageants aimed to please the garish and the blinded throng from heaven sent in hellish garb of bodies blown from end to who have no goal but to amend raise sails and forward step by step into the gaping jaws of death whose heat and dust is lust to men who search for pleasure here and call the flush of genius to stand before the whirling throng of those who would be gods and dirt where chance stands up and stares at passing shows on empty streets and fields laid bare by greedy hands heaped up on aimless needs this play is not what you have made but is the evening’s splendid ray that fall on ruins old and new on tower street and avenue where tired feet that cannot stay fall on and on monotony and pave the way to gluttony

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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