everything is new and old, in equal disproportions. the finicky lavender-chamomile candle flickers like a beagle barking at bear big as a mountain, and we're telling stories in the shapes of tongues of flames and the ghosts of night define us. the tragic, the comic, the epic and romantic intertwine, commingling like the flea and bloody wine, Mr. Donne, a tragic affair, to be sure. dining pigs standing on twin legs and wallowing in egotistical mire, muddied delights of desire and defiance - who are we beneath divinity, but parched paper in a fire. chance, a lucky prayer, as an ant walking between the legs of a thousand spiders, so help me God.
Now, let's pretend time is a telephone wire, all I hear is static from the other end. but the candle shivers to no avail - what does it know?
No comments:
Post a Comment