December 22, 2001
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An aching kind of music borne
In deep rivers under cliffs of snow
Sits rough and insistent on the chest.
Wood bends, splinters, mulches and grows again
While lives pass on as they have done.
Something new is so very very old
And has been passed through
By many before.
It is a well-troden path indeed.
And so we plant our crafts
Fly our oceans like kites
In the strong breeze
Carve and dig and turn
Our marks more or less transitory.
For our destination remains
Forever out of reach
And many ignore the long journey
As it stretches on day by day
And wind up nowhere
At the setting of the sun.
Comments (3)
cool
I really like that. Did you write that? if you did.. you are amazing. if you didn't.. still.. good taste. tell me!
:.jesster
Yep. Wrote that little ditty myself. Some evenings, I don't have the energy (or the interesting life) for a diary-type post, so I take a ew moments and write something more creative. I used to write a lit more poetry here... It's still in the archive somewhere... But you'd have to hit "Next 5" a lot of times
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