What syllables could ever hope to form
themselves
with any modicum of true meaning?
And as that liquid ditty floats,
prancing onward down the faces
linéd-- tears like rivers streaming--
the golden moon sets itself
in a hymnal of fuzz.
Fly upward, outward, Ghost--
penny for your thoughts,
treatise to bar the wailings--
ephemeral conjuncts
(a joining of hands, praises rising)
drop to stillness, malquiescence, night's promise:
we will go on forever.
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