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Lament Of The Flockless Shepherd

I'm fine with the rain on my skin
Is a lie
Perplexed by
The abstraction of form
Myriad image in repetition of emphasis
The same ancient moon
Light the same empty hills.

And we do consider these things
In each, our individuations unique
Though ubiquitous
Just as these perspectives pervade
His concern redrawn to the unseen cliff -
With each rotation's return,
Become increasingly plausible
They could be more than simply lost.

Dies
Shadows
And nets are cast

Catch them up, mold and guide them to path
As again, we hurl toward that angst,
That largest of shades
Inconspicuous,
More distant than slight.
Do we not tread for some time
Before we deteriorate?

Even then, soon enough our footsteps are forgone
Less than forgotten.
We speak, sing, and seek
Simply to be heard.

In the end, we find only what we set out with
And that our songs are lost beyond our atmosphere.

Remain:
Though vantage may occasion change,
The same ancient moon relaying
That still empty light to these hills
Betraying
No unturned stone.

None are left alone.
He believes to himself.
I'm fine with the rain on my skin.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: solitude
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