Spilling Sunday Morning

Little Cup that holds my mind,
Which rises, spills wherever the Sun softly changes

The calm air, the Ambient,
The things that belay the overflow,

I’m siting, I’m sleeping,
How do I approach it?,
Oh, live these “lies” or the perfect truth In your lonely airs,

Were there more Evil than these dark streets we tread?,
Deep, far from the revenges I’ve bore witness,

Of the sounds made in walking forward,
But never want to act upon.

Ian V. Seymour © 2012

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