by grimbeau


An old Jew’s harp prism, makes corona

schism, sees the heaven’s children glisten,

heeds bystanders syllogism, shut up

if you care to listen! Says let sly ones be

bygones, give away the ghosts, or a new world

disappears, defy at your peril swell your

placid eyes with tears. Comet’s trails point away

from the sun, seek out a place in deeper space.

For, if this love does not illuminate,

it won’t be for a want of hate for hatred,

dressed up to thrill the fat potentate

his opinion of himself inflated

soon to implode, unconditionally sated.