is never personal. It can no more happen to you than you can happen to a speck of cigarette ash.
It is not that the universe is incapable of malice. If it knew we existed it would despise us. Or pity us. But it's too busy to care.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares
The world is unfair, but impartial.
We are abandoned children. We seek conspiracy in the stars.
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Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot -- And whether pigs have wings.
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2009
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May
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- A fanatic
- The Apocalypse
- Betraying Chopin
- On Cowardice
- Allegro Marcato
- Heartbreak - 1
- Hope
- A blurring of lines
- The search for transcendence
- Concentric Paths
- One Downsmanship
- The loneliest thing in the world
- Interpretation
- Coincidence
- Laugh about it, shout about it
- An embarassment of Rich
- Cause of death
- Cheating
- Prejudice
- The Game
- Troubling allure
- A beacon from Troy
- Everyday
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- Ashvamedh
- The Basics
- Confession
- Il Viaggio a Reims
- What's in a name?
- On Love Poetry
- Lean on me
- Notes on echo
- Life: Third Degree
- Marguerite
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3 comments:
Great poem...Great post...
It's strangely comforting to be comforted by unlikely places, unlikely lines.
Gracias
M
It's strangely comforting to be comforted by unlikely places, unlikely lines.
Gracias
M
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