(no subject)

[apiphile]

far from damascus (attempt 1)

the wind has ripped my breath
across cities and desert lands
from green prisons to the clean
open sterility traversed
by singing sun-scorched bands
of men whose eyes are undaunted
by the constraint of sunday rest;
turning my prayer to the sands
to the particles of silica
a thousand flies dead upon the floor
of some vanished ocean;
my silhouette falls, i understand,
beneath these robust sea-skies
upon a tide of dry white stars;
hear this hoarse plea to the god
i'm not on good terms with
as i raise each scoured hand;
my lord, make me anything
anything
anything other
than that which i am

Comments

[gool_duck]

I read this!
It is a tel poem.
I like it, and it is sad.

(typo: hoase should be hoarse?)

[apiphile]

Hah, I edited it about six times before posting but it appears that the middle of the night, while a great hour for composition, is a bad one for being observant. Thank.

[wolfy_writing]

Ooh, a Lawrence poem! Very vivid imagery.