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Our Forlorn Kind


These mornings, no sing-alongs;
rather live-alongs,
with two rather cold, drowsy hands crossed
on the heavy white cover
in front of me,
the rest of my mechanical machinery covered
in the warm, white grasp,
toes wiggling in the distance,

the circling thoughts in my head swarming
like tadpoles in the garden water lily pond,
free at last, free at last – for a time -
to roam post dream, pre preoccupation
in their daily transmigration,
soon rising like wide-winged birds,
spiraling across the valleys,
under the cloud base,
sometimes carrying phrases,
or traces of symbolized messages
in their claws,
out of the unlimited inhibits
of the unconscious;
treasures of wild, arcane keywords,
leaking into the glaring light of sunrise
and self-awareness,
akin to thermals of methane
rising out of Arctic permafrost,
as the invasive species I belong to
leaves Pandora's box ajar
and heads for any otherness and all,
spear-headed by Voyager I and II;
outposts of our forlorn kind,
starstruck
by the power and poetry
of discovery and knowledge




Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 11 gånger
Publicerad 2021-08-20 12:21



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