This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO



Great glimmering black chariots
beyond our recent grasp
no more rumble across our sky.
We’ve sent them to rumble over there
above the wrong sands,
the wrong sky.

The gleam of the swan
holds the world;
all sounds, all occasions,
all shades, all weepings
are the black swans.

Down in our street
the roar still hovers near.
It howls when we are told
of another looming flight;
their wings, like a growth,
move inside us,
cancerous, unbearable.

These random birds are dead!
They can no longer die!
No longer suffer in our days of dismay,
years of dread...

If it is surprise we seek let it be a revolution,
not hunkering down for the next black swan!
Not skyward gaze! Stand up!
Look forward! March on!

Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

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