Monday, December 31, 2012
In The Time Of Homer
I can be abducted by superstitions lurking in the dark,
Their feverish impulses are working at my heart;
This voiceless air connects with the dead and semi-living,
For they abjure the sight of mortals who abstain from sorrows.
The bloody panic gasps, the panic manages a spectacle of sin,
For they too are voiceless as the grim bearers of rotten flesh.
It's rational to consider wines and other udders as spoilers,
Of course they spoil and spill, the life is spoiled with a backlash.
In the time of Homer there were sins of the pen for he became blind
From the worrying about of sins that did not concern him,
Here physics and solutions combined with experiments
To let your gold earrings in, fearing their breath was sin.
From long and short battles a word was won to complete
The war of the ages that bled from bloody panic.
These were the padding called the cushion of the helmet
Once worn to be in the time of ancients.
There was an overwhelming sadness
From the hissing gas fires of this late century
That cooked our meats in the privacy of our homes.