two preludes

the un-man doesn’t know of love;
his misdirected reason
has bent, just like his will, to find
a hate for every season

but let’s go planting in the spring
and harvest in the fall;
then we’ll reap all the things we sowed,
the un-man
of all

the child stacks his blocks upon the floor
although they soon fall down, and always have —
there’s only this to life, there’s nothing more;
that, and these wounds for which there is no salve

come join me, shy,
and we’ll be sort of friends;
and stay until the music
finally ends

i stood upon the corner of regret
and saw the cracks that formed within the wall:
like all i gamble, some odd sort of bet
i made to gain some trifle, then lost all —

the music’s done,
but all is still the same;
just cracks and blocks and naught else
to my name

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