Did you know my heart (a thing that god begat) has blinkered eyes?
It’s not a lie.
But I’ll admit that saying so (especially when looking at a bloodied ram) is passing strange. Am I deranged or even damned? Perhaps. But let me see how often I (and artlessly?) can speak of “heart” within some verse in which I claim nonsensically I’m trying to avoid remorse for things for which I can’t be blamed. So even I have cause to ask "oh what's the...
It simply isn’t true as one, through ruptured syntax, claimed, that every moth’s intent when drawn unto a siren source of light is then to end its life. It has no such desire for suicide. And if it suffers winged demise like Icarus in coming far too close to flame, it surely was, because of little strength or brain, an accident.
Here’s something that amuses me about the way my woman’s come to be: So stubborn in her language sways is she, convinced, convicted that she’s always right to boil when syntax gaffes are on display, that I am bound to say there’s little doubt concerning just how free, not faint, she’ll feel to post without restraint corrections of the grammar God employs within his text on sinners and on saints that’s meant for judgment day.
How with an air of quiet grace she’s come into my life so like the way the moon slides silently behind a cloud. And only yesterday I thought myself too old to be an object of desire, too winter-waned without, within, ice greyed and blurred to have once more the heart inside me stirred.
There’s wrath behind her smile. Her jaw is set in thunder. A coil of hard contempt lies deep inside her limbs and if she comes determined to caress it’s only then to see how easily she’s able to draw blood There’s nothing I can do or say to soften her away from all the miseries she’s known from other men that thoughtless words of mine have brought back to her memory, reminding her of just how much their hold on her survives.
I was a witness to his bloody death. It was a thing of torment and distress for him, this would-be Jewish King. He could not breathe unless he forced his legs to biting pain upon the nails that spiked his heels against the knot within the planted upright he, exhausted, sweat streaked, dangled from. And yet not once was he then heard to voice disdain upon his murderers or cry out curses on the hungry dogs that snarled and bared their teeth beneath him there, waiting and aprowl within a death-watch vigiling to...
I want to know of all the thoughts I pray to thee, no matter if they play upon my tongue, become articulate and are voiced aloud, or stay within my heart as wordless groans and whisperings oh which, if any. of them are the ones you’ll want to hear and which are those you might forbid to ever touch your ear.
Please tell me, God.
I want your promised rest, but do not know just what to say to have it now bestowed on me.
Perhaps if I address you as my Pater, Lord, and act as if you...
Because I know that fame’s a thing that can’t be carried with me when I, as dust to dust, go down into the grave, and cannot serve as light or warmth beneath the earth, I hope now that my name will be passed on with love in an unsullied state in others’ memory and will remain marked out on living tongues at least a while as if a flame that brightens darkness at the end of day. That is, I think, as much as one can ask for of the ever-turning world.
I’ve heard it claimed that when we’re young we know a happiness that will not be surpassed in any of our later days. In fact, it’s said, life’s destiny’s at thing that cannot help but dim and make unreachable the memory of how content we were at play within the lilting years just after infancy
For time’s cruel hand will all too soon immerse us in a growing consciousness of how much life is really nothing but a vale of tears.
Oh, yes. There’s something to be said in favour of the Edening of youth’s naivete. ...
What was it like when I met God? I tell you now I was gob stopped and quite surprised (and not in any heedless way) to see with dazzled eyes a vision quite the opposite of what my expectations were: that he in all his majesty’s a she.