markbousfield

When I last cried tears of fullness,
tears rounded in joy,
in cynicism and in poor health
I struggled in ebbing wounds of fantasy,
in the waning tides, drowning my hope of loneliness, soul rivers.
Reavers cloying each emotion clear in the rising of the misanthrope's bulient anger.
Ripe for death in a baby's heartattack tradgedy I lay there,
my ailing body succulent to the disease.

From the crest of dust released from the step of my foot
to the sweet music flowing into my ear,
each a timeless beauty,
a design never forgotten,
centuries blessed with humanity,
generations of genuinely simple pleasures,
all in line,
laying in the grass,
full round belly leaving a hollow
in the space where our bodies vacate.