Point to the eye

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

T.S. Eliot

point to the eye with a gun
aiming straight at my soul
where is the swan arching its neck in the jet-black lake?

the mist has risen and there is a faint glow
between the water and my mind

I feel my soul burning between the folds and
crevices on the horizon
where the lone cowboy roams

the moon is a crescent
looking down with dreamy wistful aloofness
on our meanderings

the footprints lost in the sand erased by time
that mollusc of memory
contracting and expanding
to meet the heavenly desires and woes

is this mess a message
a massage to massacre
masses of mass media
in a menstrual mime
to mesmerize the mire
of miracles in a maze
leading to the ever-present Minotaur

hold my hand
I feel limp
the fire has turned out
the embers glowing in the snow

shall we come out of the rain?
I am soaked through and through



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