it was i who kept hard words to show
that some before had writ with high skill
and artifice where cups or chairs
were ornaments they wished to fill
this diverse script, with vaulted spine
that reaches skyward is struggle bound
while lambs graze along sidelines
and spits turn ever round and round
my hard words rise into my throat
an apple adam did willingly swallow
and plead to be melted there, unspoken,
by those tears that must swiftly follow
if i could say a thing, ever,
that actually had a meaning
i’d say what the lamb says in my heart
against which i am leaning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment