Friday, 2 November 2018

Smart Mouth

Cy Twombly.

The pleasures of being
hasn't nestled into rest;
for all fire plays
and numb toil
had failed in sleep -

In dark turmoil
does logic gone to rust;
for all things gold
will turn to dust.

Hear my pray,
beseech my need;
for every time it plays
it nips its tougue to bleed.

In every torture
there lies commanding drums;
for much like pleasure
the fools all sleep in slums.

If like this -
heaven reaches
for many hours of day;
I think it might've had too much to say.

So sit back your braided thought
and come what may the speech;
the sounds that click and clock
will melt in time we preach.

Sit silent, lie still,
for autumn dreams tomorrow;
because life in painting
has nightmares promised in sorrow.

Neila.
[NaPoWriMo 2018]

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