woe to the mourners,
and woe to myself,
and woe to the sad poets
for the overuse of such a word-
...
once I did come upon a man
of short in stature
but greater than
As such man, would abhor
...
poets of centuries,
their words ever so
-eloquent
whisper their lives
...
Blossoming brush, dark sky
And a torrential world between them;
Both sit unmoving
For all they know they are alone
...
Set upon golden hills would be a truce; not shining like a sun
Not golden as a moon
But bright as the stars-
Distant forever till they are not, and by then far far
...
a leaky pipe sprung a leak before
it became a leaky pipe,
and then became its future, and thus
current self,
...
four years
and four minutes past
half the hour and what do you
get the past is a bandage
...
Cliche
woe to the mourners,
and woe to myself,
and woe to the sad poets
for the overuse of such a word-
so much to a point of platitudinous
though surreal despair