Monday, April 23, 2012

In the Evening of the Flesh

In the evening of the flesh and all that sorrow that is swept alongside it and sad first times of doubt and recognition of life’s passing and traveling with no hands on the wheel and the seed of doubt that grows a tree of your own demise — following around in all our backyards, glinting in the moonlight to be known — but we ignore it  as it rises up above the yard above the house, towers above the death of childhood essence and before you know it you are old and see it reflected in the faces of the youth who look upon you as if you had been born this way, as if they were the first to know youngness — that there is only youngness and no real grasp of what lies in wait for them
Fill me with forgiveness because it was only yesterday kind sir that I too wondered how long I had been young and tree glowering in the sweltering summer sun breathes its sad refrain all over us a-woosha-a-woosha and this too shall pass and all must be turned again to swirl and mirl —
Irrevocable spin into tomorrow; we search out tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—
Thinking that days end and that days don’t end — that there is only today and all days and no days and that’s no matter because your light is off in space and I suppose that atomic ray is a type of immortality as it slow beats its boat out into forever.

Apologies to: Shelton Lea, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Enid Blyton.

Listening to: Crisis - UK 79

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