Ancient Robes – Aug 1 (re-edited)
... which dons its ancient robes and waits and waits
Purple Robe
How to say the bitter seed of curse
is soil of the happiest of times
and ecstasy of rapturous rhymes
which cannot ever seem to last and
ever seldom come to pass,
that, I, for want of neutral peace of ‘nothing no at all’
hold my chest at bay
and flee its lofty feels away
and speak not of love’s renown
whose points the poet has ever crowned his head and filled
it full of lies of love
and eyes of wool.
Blind me then not with love but hate,
or something quieter but no less great
which dons its ancient robes and waits
and waits
and waits.
About
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”
