Picking Weeds

Picking Weeds

The infinite reward of the end! Must it be infinite? It’s certain it is. It
is nothing,
And nothing is everything- as well as everything; that if the end
brought it all
We’d confuse that this was it- nothing settles us without confusion:
All is appropriately all.
You dream? You fool. You have a stack of pigeons below your
glass, having crashed
To death against it. Necessity evinces us of it with a blade point.
Thus we learn
Our engine of surcease: Possibility adopts the vicious, and ye
dream gentle. Dream of cannons
And blood and wars that banner their arrival with the cannons that
splash blood.
Time remembers…

 

S. T. Brant is a teacher living in Las Vegas.

The Burnt

The Burnt

I burn in a twirl of words, O, voice of Fire, voice of Love, voice of a language of Destruction,
O, voice of a Seal that could kill Death, O, wreath and wrath of Word,
Speak of thine spinning,
Spell round me that I may in petals on the wind enjoy the sound’s Destroying and Remorphing,
Thine whirl of fury, O, glad ardor of being,
Burn wheel, wheel, burning wheel,
That music of thy churning, sweet sibilance,
Fire sing thine love,
Burn, hurt, round, round,

There is too much unmet within this fire, no match is any joy in heart,
I twirl in burning words singing their singing, burning their burn.

Terebinth is a teacher currently residing in Las Vegas.

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