In The Arms Of Morpheus
Constantly beleaguered
By fatigue, I shall
Patch in a quiet
Scale of acerbic water.
And so heave and haul
My eyelids up;
As a ship with paralytic sails
Are often acquainted.
With such luck
I trek through a season of
Idyllic winter: white snow
The soft caul of torpid
Neutrality. And the ship;
Mast rising from the
Obscuring mist sees light. Only
For that rare, tenuous moment.
No comments:
Post a Comment