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The mountains seem as distant as the years:
How could my heart remain so far away?
I walk within my words, yet even there,
Roiling inside, the nameless play,
Thrashing through the net of thought like tears,
Yielding silent music to the air.
The past seems no more real to me than dreams:
How could my eyes not see what they have seen?
Reality is prose, yet even there,
Each sentence is far more than I can mean,
Each word more overfull than swollen streams.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
