Ode To Walt Whitman
Carried deceased
Buried senses
Don’t speak before the day’s break
Uphold, uphold
As you do unto me.
She will curse me for another sin
I’m so thin
With soundless indeed
Filthy seeds.
We speak to each other no more
Inflammable eyes caught me for
Dumped me to dungeon of doom
Hidden place were suffering in bloom.
Other seldom comes to me for help
This I keep for myself
Slow to sympathized
When it come to size.
In conformity with destiny
Takes great delight in teasing company
Their refusal to help was a disappointment
Your accused was a torment.
Trip to come
Sin to come
Death’s thy other as thyself.
(2001)
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