(no subject)

Apr 30, 2007 17:55

He waxes thick sometimes
like Keats
keeping him wound between his ears
he trips over his tongue
in torrential throes
beyond his control.

He is driven sometimes
by fluidity and art
and the driving beat
of a heart he can't bear
but confess then cajole.
His will, wholesome,
is not in the wake of his thought.

His soul is a cycle of
solemn and silly.
He is me, he is Merry;
he is murder to music.
Our bodies won't play,
while our minds are at war.
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