the sense of loss,
the uncertain pain,
feet are sinking then are sunk,
emerged in summers untimely rain.
buildings gaze down upon me,
with a force so violent, it makes me curse and stammer,
legs feel week crushed by this deppressive hammer.
So carefull not to miss an inch,
the cotton wool moves with such ease high in the skies,
the gods have been particular.
nature is in constant fault,
by man, machine, even by my thoughts-
as a poet i scribble down words,
happy with my achievement,
in turn a tree is hacked down,
stipped for the pleasure and pain,
of a poet,
who does not know yet.
the price and the cost and what is therefore lost.
The gods have been distracted,
the gates unguarded,
sleeping angels usless guards,
illegal entry into the white garden.
not yet have i tried such a selfish act,
but if these buildings continue to stare,
i shall no longer care,
the gods were mistaken,
with arragonce comes imperfections,
and the wordly pain,
is us the human stain.
in the deepest blue lagoon,
with the shadows from the moon,
there solace shall be found,
not a whisper, nor a sound,
no time, no age no disease,
a perfect place,
a saving grace,
forever empty even when full,
a poetic pathetic dream,
a vision, wordless, and worthless,
selfish and serial,
yet these thoughts offer me peace,
and help raise my feet from the ground,
the building's become toy miniatures,
and i smile,
if only for a while,
visual imagery is full of trickery,
i am shrinking,