The sun burns in her hair, the risks long forgotten
What was the moment?
When rescues of souls took free will to its resting place
My laughter was the scorn of angels.

A sleepy exercise in diminution
Binds their minds, giving them lies and hateful satisfaction
The transience of understandings, excuse after delicious excuse.

Confusion of ritual for experience
So subtle, how could we have known?
Its breath speaks volumes overwhelmed by a cacophony of silence

She seeks what she has
Fools herself about not needing to look
Not knowing.

- Joe Levy, Oct 1997

Entrance | Yindex | © 1999-2008