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Gateway into Creation
There's no stopping time
except with that invention
of the mind.
As our sorrow
ceaselessly spins into the soul,
weaving the woe
of the almighty and awaiting
gravestone,
we roll big blunts.
We cough like crazy children.
An abyss arches
presenting a foggy gateway
of inviting light.
Sunshine drips
through pretty portals.
Did we ever know
the beginning?
Will we ever know
the end?
In very subtle ways, this
In very subtle ways, this poem reminds me of Eliot's words about time in Burnt Norton. That is a mighty fine circle in which to launch your poem, which you have constructed very well. The short lines are very conversational, and, thus, very effective.
Starward
That's possibly the best
That's possibly the best compliment which exists. Sincere gratitude.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes