The tongue has woken, blow your horns.
Fire springs forth in all directions; it’s morn.
Control the flames before the witnesses burn.

Time is viscous and fatal; it flies.
In absence of patience, all love dies.
Only a fleeting glimpse of spark survives.

Lost and found. The sense has drowned
in sounds you sent not meaning to intend.
To unwind your own doom they were meant.

Bobbing like flotsam, you’re now searching
for a gesso ground to stand upon. Chirping
birds swoop and whisper. You are hearing.

Flames dwindle courageously on a stick.
A candle tends towards a newer wick.
Words are but whirling dervishes and gimmicks.

The always-becoming wine-dark memory sea.
Let its profound infinite form heave and tease.
It will not forgive and forget with ease.

Speak, but let silence transform to song.
Learn to whisper, leave the slogans for the throng.
Wait for no one; no one shall come along.


~ by Bombadil on May 17, 2006.

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