waking dream or sleepless specters,
wracked in wont; he wants the more.
it is the heart, all a-fettered,
that looses grip on his there and now
to pluck ... or draw ...
or smile his eyes at solipsism in un-faith
by mourning or laughing
with crudeness autumn devils that stole Godly peace
pace the mind and drag to disgrace
and ground that bites the cold to rest
a brunette smile and hope to linger,
in trope, like hanging rancor
on a drive where backward is ..
backward is gone when the past flies away
running sideward to escape and skip the hard race
between heartbeats and stillness
and temper and scheming
he goes to feminine whispers
with curls and pretty eyes,
waking, sleeping, cascading again to
blot out the Light where horizon's eyes and fatigue
meet fury to live through nights neither good nor gentle
raging for the Living of the Light that won't fade;
don't fade.
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