You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.
The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.
The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...
-Walt Whitman
19.4.16
poetry
And poetry will be our language,
Shelter ourselves with it,
Like thick blankets at winter's peak;
Kisses indelible on our skin.
We will talk, live, love down to the last word
Until there is only silence,
Where words become infinite.
Labels:
lyrical ejaculations,
open letters,
personal,
prose,
scribbled flights
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