Wednesday, August 31, 2005

titles are always inept

I long for a passion to wake my core,
a fire to tear my heart and render it void

Something more than art
but life and death and coldness
in my writing

I long to shiver at my words
and to be astounded
by my thoughts

Grasp the infinite
and twist it to my liking.

I long for the sublime
utterance of silence and
the depth of darkness as
I shut my eyes

Straining for the words to which
my being writhes
and surrenders

Vain as it may be,
I long for immortality
with each piece.

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