on being, and nothing in particular.


for e.e. cummings

i have strange dreams about you, 
where you stand in such a darkness
and the light around you is dim;
unsmiling, you watch me
and talk about violence.

we exchanged voices, without a melody to our sounds
and once you turned your back with pen in fingers to paper on your lap, 
i only then understood what you'd been hammering on about.

your eyes have a silence, so tenderly lonely,
 like you know no other way to keep;
but your words i carry them with me like memories, 
they dance in my mental wilderness
all i can do is let them wander astray,
 for who could hold such beauty in its place

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