| accidentally, i spill |
[27 Jan 2006|10:04pm] |
accidentally, we may do
a lot of things.
and hang the echo of want
on the air as if
it were meant for no
thing except dangling
there.
perfect is attained through
monkish turtle steps
if at all
though we do have some small
means otherwise, then...
except space left out
of context and using
much in the vein of power
, or at least vigor, not
could be seen or made
inasmuchas
observed. and so as suddenly
as it fills you up, the moment
may move in such a way
as to get and
stick. penetrating
throws the wind adores or
adorns indiscriminitely any
worth or functionality
which bears fruit.
"ends meet or do not;
like notes and people and
horizons..." said the carpet
to the ceinling as the sun rose and
night finally begs leave.
misunderstanding, being moot,
shrugs off and onlooking,
finds the constellations actually,
mythically making quiet
sense out of the world
once and for all.
|
|