I said fate plays a game without a score,and who needs fish if you've got caviar?
The triumph of the Gothic style would come to passand turn you on—no need for coke, or grass.
I sit by the window.
Outside, an aspen.
When I loved,
I loved deeply.
It wasn't often.
I said the forest's only part of a tree.
Who needs the whole girl if you've got her knee?
Sick of the dust raised by the modern era,the Russian eye would rest on an Estonian spire.
I sit by the window.
The dishes are done.
I was happy here.
But I won't be again.
I wrote:
The bulb looks at the flower in fear,and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-o Euclid thought the vanishing point becamewasn't math—it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window.
And while I sitmy youth comes back.
Sometimes I'd smile.
Or spit.
I said that the leaf may destory the bud;what's fertile falls in fallow soil—a dud;that on the flat field, the unshadowed plainnature spills the seeds of trees in vain.
I sit by the window.
Hands lock my knees.
My heavy shadow's my squat company.
My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked,but at least no chorus can ever sing it back.
That talk like this reaps no reward bewildersno one—no one's legs rest on my sholders.
I sit by the window in the dark.
Like an express,the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.
A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideasare second-rate, and may the future take themas trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark.
And it would be hard to figure outwhich is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.
Anonymous Submission
