Words ripen, fall from the lips
and are gone,
the dewfall of thought
that conceived them mere affliction.
Everything that passes
between us is carried
on the breath of a lie.
If we have withheld love in anger,
if feeling is tranmuted
without sound or forethought
does the will stand?
The will stands,
finds a center in gyrations
of ecstasy.
Prayers fall from my lips like pearls,
and here is the lie:
That truth is stronger than a lie,
that good will out,
that you will get yours.
Oh such a world as this,
the blood of occupation suggesting
permanence,
is inherited by a weakened seed,
a walking anthology
of neuroses,
heirs of the day,
heirs to the purity
of pain and subversion.