For thomas stearns eliot,
From timothy scott ennis
The Love Song Of The Waste Land Is Conceived
In Dulcet Tones That Never Should Be Sung
The Fantasy Of Poetry Is Grieved
By Ancient Words That Stay Forever Young
Eternal Youth Is Promised With The Lies
Of Fear Within A Hand Once Filled With Dust
I Never Throw That Shit In Open Eyes
Relax Your Mind And Read It If You Must
The Dead Will Sing Out Loud From Graves Of Stone
Their Words May Yet Be Seen By Those Who Hear
The Love Of Land Where No One Is Alone
Where Even Darkened Words Are Crystal Clear
Come Lie With Me, Composed Of god’s Own Grace
The Truth Will Lie When Nothing’s Out Of Place.
This entry was posted on Friday, February 15th, 1924 at 11:51 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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