To Live - Poem by Walt Ostrander
Is to dream
With Death as a lucidity.
No more will time make
Vicious intimacies with Love;
For still there are fingers mismatched
And bells straining to hear
What it is like to, simply, Live.
(And philandering about as the
Cuckold often do shall illusionary existence
Secretly murder silently and sweetly to a rather
There is no room for those of sound importance,
And Angels flow upon the crimson robes of Time
And strike with obsequious villainy
The comets of our lives.
Comments about To Live by Walt Ostrander
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You