Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Just out of reach

I thought I had it,
Felt it, smelt it,
Put my finger in its blood,
Heard the noise, felt the thud,
Ran through the powdery foam,
Climbed into the mourning gloom,
Saw the streaking shafts of a strange new day, Saw the dark-haired child with the dolls of clay.

The new is old, the old is retro,
Retro is how the youth will know,
About birth and death that define us,
Refine us, defile and deride us,
Mock us till the setting sun,
Til optimism is spent and emphatically done.

I thought I had it,
Felt it jingle in my head,
Like a needle pulling thread,
Through the labyrinths of my defeats,
Into the white steel resting the sheath.
I raise my sword and wander listless,
As my face grows its bristles,
The new day sulks into view,
And I still don't have the eagle's view.

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