My inner psychic life a sailor
along the shore of something strange,
he minds and mans the gap from Wisdom
eyes with envy rolling plains
from starward deck of Sartrean vessel,
destined morals : auburn clay
are cargo in my hold forever
molded million times a day;
and cardinal virtues not a quartet
nor orchestral symphony,
much more the seconds in a century,
soft touch of lips, or eyes to see;
for even disenchanted worlds--
though knife-black freedom can alarm--
hold the dictum that no other
but myself could my soul harm.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment