I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Voices lifted in the seething, emerald cathedral Offering immortality to the dying Inviting the isolated into infinite intimacies
By D. J. Reddall9 months ago in Poets
It is not your reading that he resents You could be reading scripture, or cook books Think of the problem a novel presents
From "I do not know" To "I do not care," the road Is short and baleful
You can remember All that I have forgotten Please, remember me
Why do we allow ghosts to tell us what to do? Because the ghosts did too, while they still lived They permitted the dead to linger in their minds
Like all who linger I am dwindling but not Yet prepared to end
What traitors our eyes show themselves to be The trees are strangers compared to the stars According to their false testimony
Look at everything I have accumulated Without any taste
The world bulges with petty avarice Reason seems not to understand itself Villains and thieves are seen as glamorous Books of wisdom sit idle on the shelf
My favorite part You won't believe me, I'm sure It is your pleasure
By D. J. Reddall10 months ago in Poets
Never mistake me for an object I am legible, and I can read
Who will ever paint The secret of the patience Of a cat, watching?
