For Eliot, Baudelaire and Wilde


Eventually, the point of boredom
arrives not with a dull thud;
but in violent mutinies,
made in names worthy of riots.

The point becomes a country:

a war is fought in the likeness
of the inner conflict that resolves
the ancient mystery of emptiness;

a perfect leaf is drawn from memory,
as separated from the eldest tree.
It’s a wintry brown autumn.

Words break like sad leaves
and meet the dust
of the first leaf that ever fell
from the branches of the eldest tree
in the first of all seasons.

Welcome to the place where lost things go:
where nothing continues to happen;
they all return here
to get refreshed again;
so that when the next mutiny occurs,
they may all return to
their original habitats of curiosity.


~ by Bombadil on May 31, 2008.

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