Thursday, November 8, 2007

Phil's Poetry part 4

show me the cold moon o shattered son
pilfer from the small towns and cities
the goods which keep you living

the brave deeds of your kind
the gears which clutch and grind
the hours i've lain awake
by choice i've taken back
my voice and given another
a chance to live
in the delusion that what we are
here is as flesh and bones appear
in photographs and x-ray
as murderers or as hunters' prey

show us as we really are
to us non-beings in as far
as we made up our minds
to hide inside them
the cold moon is larger than it looks to be

we are capable
and capable of being misled
and of misleading ourselves

we are tied to the tracks
looking forward to the future
and then back at the past
when actually both ways seem to fade
forever from our sight
because we fail to know what can last

show me the cold moon o battered son
make me to feel everything as one
our tracks are paths toward endless horizons

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