Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
My love, birds are just birds
they are not carrying a message of meaning
The days come and I lift my head
starting again and again.
All my heroes have left
in the endless drone of February
I want to drive by
keep going to see where I will end up,
but I make the turn
and leave the possibility out there.
Those dreams seem like someone else's now
as I feel the weight of it pressing
down into my bones.
I cannot fly
I cannot fly
birds are just birds, my love.
-Corbyhawk
they are not carrying a message of meaning
The days come and I lift my head
starting again and again.
All my heroes have left
in the endless drone of February
I want to drive by
keep going to see where I will end up,
but I make the turn
and leave the possibility out there.
Those dreams seem like someone else's now
as I feel the weight of it pressing
down into my bones.
I cannot fly
I cannot fly
birds are just birds, my love.
-Corbyhawk
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
To reject.
To reject everything.
That is not it.
It will neither resurrect the past nor return me to it.
Sleep, Romeo, Juliet, on your headrest of stone feathers.
I won't raise your bound hands from the ashes.
Let the cat visit the deserted cathedrals,
its pupil flashing on the altars.
Let an owlnest on the dead ogive.
In the white noon among the rubble,
let the snakewarm itself on leaves of coltsfoot and in the silence
let him coil in lustrous circles around useless gold.
I won't return.
I want to know what's left
after rejecting youth and spring,
after rejecting those red lips
from which heat seemed to flow
on sultry nights.
-Czeslaw Milosz
To reject everything.
That is not it.
It will neither resurrect the past nor return me to it.
Sleep, Romeo, Juliet, on your headrest of stone feathers.
I won't raise your bound hands from the ashes.
Let the cat visit the deserted cathedrals,
its pupil flashing on the altars.
Let an owlnest on the dead ogive.
In the white noon among the rubble,
let the snakewarm itself on leaves of coltsfoot and in the silence
let him coil in lustrous circles around useless gold.
I won't return.
I want to know what's left
after rejecting youth and spring,
after rejecting those red lips
from which heat seemed to flow
on sultry nights.
-Czeslaw Milosz
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