With expressive violins
dressed and mocked by woodwind
on computer radio
the mind which cannot sleep
may yet find peace
in cigarettes stubbed out in the grease
in this warm cocoon of Winter and forgetfulness
inside from the late night drift
of berries thorns and snow
…these were our most tender selves
we vagabonds, we orphaned children
stammering and pacing
we stunted elves
in our stunted youth
our teens and twenties
having ventured forth to truth
and being beaten and betrayed
and crushed…left
to the corridors of the Institution
to mumble thoughts and gather dust.
I was already old then!
even older and more mindless now
…but I have found a certain comfort
in this proper time and place.
A cold and wicked nation!…how I pity
the prophets of our race
http://quantumpoetry.wordpress.com/2011/07/09/sam-silva-2/
