Number ten.
Do these shoes not but hold fast to accompanying feet?
And such feet, are not they dually so
Engaged in sincere function,
Whereupon below
Is interposed some drastic score of stone,
The ashen bone of ten trillion pretty girls
Set there in time by some compunction?
And there, above the feet,
Is that not me?
Tell me this.
Are not we to look within to find the things we are to seek?
The lengths of which?
Bitter hypocrite
Inauthentic
Dysgenic
Hands over throat.
O so slow…

Are not these the working hands of a tribe which crossed the sea?
This, the year 2016?
And these, the waking lands of eternity?
Is not the past true, and is its breadth placed not squarely upon you?
Had you to me these thoughts expressed and then I merely them addressed?

🙁 🙂 🙁 🙂 🙁 🙂 🙁 🙂

For though I wake and deal in things aloof
And here make little but glitter and goof
I call me now into my breast
To ask of me that holy test:
Keep true that which here doth lie
That earnest fiction in which men fly
Or else reduce to vague and simple.
I continue:
Maintain me not in private tryst
A flinching forth between the mist
To half disdain and once dissolved.
A pause.
Am not I at once engaged in this same once so truthful fictive?

In time of this a leaf falls.