Eclipse of the Moon HTML version

while all in your court sing
the battles you won.
Who can you speak to
ancient Methusela
you who have lived more than
all other men,
though your heart break so
torn and confused by a
wish that all life began
over again.
Where is there comfort
for you who have lived the most,
loved the most, wept the most,
wished the most — all
companions of common sort,
those for whom life is brief,
love is brief, joy is brief,
deaf to your call.
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Old Dreamers
Nor poem delights me neither
of any I have written:
to end this line with ether
is where the morning begins.
Ether, its opiate
shifting the conception to end
I do not know if I love or hate,
seek in verse or write to amend.
The morning begins with ether
pure and cold and sunlit,
the cold dominant and sure
against my little bit.
And so I rage in an ethered
numbness of the cold,
my mind and heart together
stamping on all I‘ve told.
What use the flow of passion
twisted into a rhyme
to tell in an old fashion
what soul intuits sublime
when all it is ether
connecting star to star
or hypothesis of how things were
before they shone so far.
Sun, stars, you burn away