Anthology of dreams (drownedinwords) wrote, @ 2005-10-07 01:38:00

Iago

It is late at night
And the kindness of friends goes a long way
But I cannot stop reading poison

Into every slice of history
(that history they told us was no longer a line).

What terror in this thing,
To be haunted by that which
Can never be known,
And known, can never be trusted,
And trusted, can never be forgotten.

What fear of this thing we can hold.

And I wish I were less far removed
From that bard.

We might sit down
And certain things be resolved,
Were the distance smaller,
Or the words,
The thoughts,
Any easier to swallow.

But all the endless hours of play
Which list into each other on the shelf
And those studies we perfected
In the hours before panic absolves

Are empty for one
Who cores himself so absolutely
And with such ease,
With one little word

One discarded kerchief
To become merely
Walls for sounding on,
Whispers of
Echoes of
A clean sky
Torn by love.