I have dragged my ragged claws in this wet sand,
ever Eastward (as the better maker suggests
we all might scuttle,
while he paces about his cell, immobile) and I may tell
that it is not so divine a fate
for none here may be graced to drown
nor can we hear, so deep beneath
the black waves, any sirens sound
let alone a human voice to wake us.
And how should you presume to know
when one such as we are wakened?
Our eyes, lidless, stay fixed,
but on what, I ask you?
Come. Descend and ask it of my eyes.














Comments
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Those who love most, have forever the childlike mind.
[link]
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No one I think is in my tree
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Those who love most, have forever the childlike mind.
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No one I think is in my tree
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No one I think is in my tree
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No one I think is in my tree
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