Beneath the grey
I am awake
but only sometimes.
This voice has been meddling for centuries;
Tongue-tying letters and awkward notes
into knots of sharp silence which
just will not do.
I sip iciles
gathered from the dirty undercarriage
of yesterday's inspiration.
I am no longer a poet
gazing at the puddle of clouds
hung low like an executioners hood.
Beneath the grey
I am sometimes awake.
Author notes
Heh. This is crummy.
Comments
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I am no longer a poet
gazing at the puddle of clouds
hung low like an executioners hood.
struck a chord
-
Yeah!
You:-
This voice has been meddling for centuries;
Tongue-tying letters and awkward notes
into knots of sharp silence which
just will not do.
Me:- Yes well.........every man of the middle age may , or may not, comment to you about what life means when your whole earthly existence seems, having never thought upon the problem before,to be part of an inner "attman - the whole inner self ( and the inner voice)" after a certain age of realisation after which the period experiences of life no longer seem to matter in some sense.
Regards
Andrew Siddle / Indara Sidi/Siddhe in ancient British Indo European Phoenician and Indo-Aryan Sanskrit.
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When time walks into this cavern of our lifetime, we tend to see things, realize the grayness of it.
Ironically, 'Life is as is no matter what'. It lives in a space I call Nirvana.
I believe. there are reasons that are being kept to be reasons ought to be revealed in the next afterlife or probably to be given on the otherside.
Always a pleasure to read your work, my very first favorite here in AP.
Thank you and ping me if you have a new one.
Hensley a.k.a Virgoan
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