Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Mille Oscula

Here by his empty stretches,
the gibberish, the brazen
wrong notes, of
thought long extended
is the,
surrounding/encompassing
the shifting skies strangely
elapsing his thread of
time,
ear or window of
the soul, listening, listening
for the pulse;
hearing in shifting sand
and staggered to fit
every bit in,
the wild, unrestricted,
unendingly merciless
rawness call of beauty
to this his primitive
its source at and
found, not shifting,
but pouring, inward,
a torrent of purity-
inconceivable gladness.


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