Sunday, February 22

the closed world of intertextuality

paper was flying, words as well,
when I last stood by the sea.
I was alone, the breeze did not last
and a smile played on incipient moon's
face. Wicked drop
of abandon, of freedom.

You sit on the rock, the waves lash,
waiting for a being to cross the sea,
walking on water in age of cynicism,
and you stay, , but you stay,
as revelation is lost
amidst throes of reason.

While descends a pall of wisdom
deep into soul, blotted into
as guilt and as sin,
while stone transforms to Creator,
and new eggs are laid to turn to wood,
Kristeva fills minds of men, of women.

You wait in a checked shirt, blue jeans,
Looking at that dibbly-dobbly vessel,
as if you should sleep while He comes;
But you prefer so, for waiting is better
than conversing with flies feasting on the dead,
for You remain the last one to see the Rhino.

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