To The Nile
Poem By John Keats
They are what dreams seep
wounds of molten gold to inject their value
they're the far away escape for which one never grasps 'soul'
They are of the unfurling
moving in the stream of vespertine, errant
dissassociate from all that is sky and sanded stone
to be among the flightless and the abhorred before self
then rise, and fall, and come again anew
the crawling breath of sleep on the wing stretched wide.
liquid river under the shadow
brushed on, shining paths of discovered mortar
breath into the cracks to mold the new self, enduring.