(no subject)
Its that thin string,
Tangling the strongest hands and feet,
Even tangling the stillness of the mind,
Treading the human grief,
I see Lincoln bearing down dark black fruit,
Only to tie a shappy noose,
tossing it over the lowest branch,
Handing the other end to me,
"This, the only cherry tree, Washington's hands missed,"
Dull axe of an Illinois childhood in hand,
I watch Abe's Macbeth,
A dance of twist and air,
Cherries bleed out the final scene,
Sweet melancholy rains around me,
The return to Califoria,
The Paris of Midwestern men,
A deep purple thread mocks my feet,
All the way back to the last of the Seas,
Through America highways and a soft whisper of destiny.
Tangling the strongest hands and feet,
Even tangling the stillness of the mind,
Treading the human grief,
I see Lincoln bearing down dark black fruit,
Only to tie a shappy noose,
tossing it over the lowest branch,
Handing the other end to me,
"This, the only cherry tree, Washington's hands missed,"
Dull axe of an Illinois childhood in hand,
I watch Abe's Macbeth,
A dance of twist and air,
Cherries bleed out the final scene,
Sweet melancholy rains around me,
The return to Califoria,
The Paris of Midwestern men,
A deep purple thread mocks my feet,
All the way back to the last of the Seas,
Through America highways and a soft whisper of destiny.