There were trumpets; winged
called angelic prostrate before innocent suns.
They still went around earths, accepted praise
until patterns and logic reigned
again
-- before.
I felt today, breathed it,
how was I to know
now was a million miles away?
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I feel like I'm missing something here, or perhaps a few words are missing in the piece itself that would make it work better for me. Yet the words keep pulling me back in. Perhaps it's my own state of mind this morning.
ReplyDeleteI think I best return and read this again later.
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ReplyDeleteApril fools!
ReplyDeleteJust kidding, I've been writing some horribly abstract poetry lately. In this one I've simply tried to tie in the cyclical nature of time and twin Atlantian Epochs. Perhaps I need another word or two.
:)
This is what nags at me:
ReplyDeletewinged
called angelic prostrate -- it feels fragmented, incomplete.
I want it to say that winged creatures were mistaken for otherworldly angelic beings yet all laid low by the magnificance of the Sun.
ReplyDeleteI'm getting it but it's not as clear as it might be for me. Either way, this continues to intrigue me.
ReplyDelete