luni, 30 martie 2009

The I

I'm out there, on the aloof side of the door
Where there are only particles of me
Spun madly by sour winds
A monolith chipped off,
Its sound obtuseness turned into infinite question marks,
The vassal protuberances within a color self-declared,
Subscribers to persuasion,
All conjured in a fat bouquet under the claims of familiarity
They've parted ways now
Who knows how many cycles until resolving to become new homeland,
How many million hours until subscribing to a new convention,
And a new definition of their spirit
Who knows how much duration of the same old falls
Falls from the feudal grace of reference poles?
Each I ends locked out barefoot in the cold
Driven back to splinters,
Splinters that fail to ever find a knot.

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