Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Ballad of a Dead Slate

I was born and couldn't see.

I grew tall but couldn't hear.

The seasons came from year-to-year.

I stood alone, but couldn't fear.

I fed on light

and from below;

I did not know

as "knowing" goes.

I was cut but could not feel,

made pieces for the masses;

I was wrapped up tight-and-neat

and scattered away like ashes.

I was one, and then was many,

marked by masters, and machines;

I became a vessel then,

for meek mimetic dreams:

in pendulums of slavish rage,

in strokes of pencil gray;

in stanzas and staccato

and the thoughts that fade away.

I was all

and nothing altogether;

swirling words in me,

and me in they,


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