Thursday, January 8, 2015
Death has a freedom so lonely and memorable,
Music is due to the sound that death makes,
Joy everlasting flows into the veins of some tune.
This death, this life is a passing moment,
Of all the joys that strum and sting like pain
The one most is a strange call so vivid.
Death has a freedom too vivid and too noisy,
Like the travel of hero ship and sympathy for old news.
Trust him when the time shines and forms,
Little death is smaller health with fury in some layers.
I have you in my stare like offerings of satan,
Forming realities that revolve around the sun
In so many times a day.
Topic(s) of this poem: death