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

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s