Poetry Archives

Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
 Unseparated atoms, and I must
 Sort them apart and live them.  Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap.  Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever.  As a monk who prays
 The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust
 Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
 And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
 And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.