The standstill

Of the mockery of  profession,

riches spoil what is in the luck,

never to weigh under the arms of other men,

lie by the tree under the shade and laugh it off,

I am not the man who could wink at other’s misfortune,

but gather from all around the sudden urge to love,

not one of the women I fancy in dreams,

going rocket for the fiery anger fearing love,

spills the beans of secret tangle that,

would take me to the river’s end,

and begin counting all the men who ever lived,

to see the river’s flow down the stream,

and pick among the men friends who could,

take you a while on the end’s game  for Lutyen’s journalism,

and perceive the life ending on the groove’s fame,

I call out many voices and still bored with the,

coming to end the last voice of heaven and,

let be there a communion of souls and,

wait to standstill in the feet.


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