Born in the arms of nothing,
Foots a way that yond dismay,
I’m a kissing feeling known,
But no, not right these days;
Am paralysed by words of word,
Now I’m walking away to yond,
The tank can’t hold more brew,
Now the water this warm is hue:
A rain that I may soak and bathe,
Ere smoked is the air this mute,
Now shook my feet for quake aghast,
Who drags me down so all roads a cliff?
But I know not mine eyes wander,
When I look to the singing naught,
And all I see is yond be ought,
If I would eat till I breathe less,
Till I drink so I eat much less,
Till I eat much less since I lived,
Now cool is the air that speaks,
How true is the still life so beau?
Whilst I look round, here we are;
In the mesh of half myself and dawn,
When it comes another day, am I gone?
Nay, tis mine half who walks here,
The nothing that I am breathes here,
All along, and now he walks to You.

Category:
Mysterious, Poetry, Works
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