Tight
The fabric of self rests in your hands
On whose craft your livelihood depends:
The man whose firm grip does not wear off,
Whom neither hopes nor fears can bear off;
That man carries in his palm a foolish script,
Into which the manic heat of willpower has slid:
He only can be charged at the cost of release,
Unless his desires shall be treated as disease;
He hurries through life in white knuckled fashion,
Making the heavens snarl at such vain passion;
Consolement he makes his ultimate goal,
While shades of wisdom keep nagging at his soul;
Thus while earthly tensions beg to be unfold
He stays oblivous to love, he persists in his mold.
Alexôme
Published: November 21, 2005
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5 Comments
This is alexome.com by the hands of Alexander Schneider. It is dedicated
to his sideburns, and to his alone.
Two days now for your day.
You should write a book of poems and put some of your photos on it.
Then you send me one with your autograph.
And I am not saying this just to be nice.
I love you too ;)
this is very special, you know it, you are different.
Ms March*
Different like whom? ;)
The last line is a crossfire from another story, but in the context of Tight, it makes sense in another sense.
Enjoy the winterly days. Sunsets in November are different.
Mr,
different like the ones with a "brain", full enough to overflow, capable of arts.
I see it, wanto see it. Thanks for being here.
as a whole, it is very good , nice edition there.
It is snowing big now, it is a lovely November night.