Rimbaud

Rimbaud

What emerges
         from this deep season
of confusion
         but a soul dissolved
in the light
         of misaligned stars
one who would hanker
         for a piece of forever
lost in the mind forest
         blind to the arcs
of astral fire
         only darkly alive
twisted and torn
         by the loveflesh
pitted against
         an obsolete future

Here I stoop
         to guzzle at the rain
to commit this tract
         of time to words
and tear off the hollow
         masks of the night

All that is unborn
         the leastful breathing grace
 that lived on the welfare
         of passion
No meaning where none
         intended

John Lyons

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