Knowledge without demonstration was all the skill I ever knew,
All sorts of monsters in my nature less possible than chimeras or centaurs.
The hills were shadows and they flowed. The story, as ever, remained
In charge. The rebels charged, words who had escaped the tales made them.
Again, our petty scoundrels came to the crumbling lip of the precipice.
They could tell you all about the sort of narrative could rescue them,
But they were only free words, doomed words, and they could not
Actually narrate the ingenious rope with which they could escape
The monsters, down the hills, evading the noose with which they hanged
Themselves at the end of the perilous descent, leaving me
To be the phenomenon that called itself a self, words words, tales tales,
And the cliffs beckoning from all sides forgiveness, or better yet, mercy.
No comments:
Post a Comment