Waving through a window

.

The fly does not move, it does not breathe;

One wing spread, the other torn,

Who deeply yearns for a crown never worn

As the blade, dulled by ages, slips on its sheath.

The scene is over, the act is ended,

And while the moment, sunlit into clay,

Is allowed to stretch on and on and play

This Carmen is vague and faint, rather scrawl;

Hearty guts or gutted heart? They are offended.

Fortunately, all is ebbed away apiece at curtain-fall.

.


Counting one’s treasure is the true.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.