She said "Enchanted dewdrops twirling celestial silk blossoms bewitching strangers betwixt heartfelt melodic moments."
Those were the days. Where an angel melts in satin and the wings of greece burn. A true outsider. Shooting a stranger on the beach.
She said "But literature"
But words are spiders. With a million legs they call me, and still I can't find them. Therefore I shall go to the dark corners of the death. I shall send you an olive branch. I hope you will paint oil pictures of me; frame them in golden paint. Night is my friend.
She spoke soft "Where-in we trust in God. And he trusts in us. I cannot speak. You must speak for me."
Yes, that is true. It's repulsive to me. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Therefore, I will stop speaking altogether: I shall hide my words in silent places.
A tear fell. She bid me farewell. So long Aurora Leigh.
What lies deeper than
night, that other side of
life, the sleeper's sphere
where many hours die
And their sighs we never hear?
From dusk to dawn that stage upon
which hallows play, and wriggle
in the dreamer's ear, plants deepest fears
skulks off its perch when morning comes
Where it goes know None.
Lord Keynes,
What do you know?
What did you find in the afterglow
of a deep & dark depression?
A comparative advantage it would be
To hold your hand through misery;
And in our spirits to be free,
To take loss with equanimity
World peace and fortune- forever!
It would have been nice-
Though I know we are just men and mice.
(Oh the end of suffering I would bring!
But I cannot reach out and touch the strings)