"The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place; from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web."
    --Pablo Picasso

Long ago it was the moon
I’m bound to lull, the image
Golden within its embrace
In a night superfluous, making
Stance at shoulder length-level
Upon which the only acute
Horizon’s effusion enhanced.
‘Twas the rolling stone, a curve
Cut from nowhere whispering
Soft entanglements away
To a never ending chorus
Of man’s suffocating quests
For reasons.
Another time spent
Spinning, a rummage as sweet
As its fume’s a lust, lost,
Virtually to the essence
Only the depths
Can be certain.


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