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EPISTLE

Epistle to a brother,
struck by the thistle with it's thorns,
a horn that blows the doom of paled religion,
dark and gloomy, deep and deadly,
the sound of organs playing
in the blue of the lagoon.

Fathoms below the surface,
lie the shells and weeds of longing,
slowly undulating in the currents of the sea,
the sea of life its tempests and its calms,
that give us qualms of meaning,
that can never be as true
as our own precise experience,
its looms of threads now woven, fixed
into a shape we cannot e'er unmake.

An earthquake would not touch them
they being of the mind created,
inside this earthly body called mankind,
the wistful winds seek out all crannies in the boat,
which is tipped to near capsizing in the brine,
this attitude, the latitude of my state.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 

Comments

feels as though there is a great philosophical question here. I'm not sure just what it is, but it sure makes me think! ~ Your knight, Sir Gee

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It's hard to write down true fealings from one to another, even family. But to write about it i would say is more difficult, if what i believe you've done here is just that. Then this is superbly written. Love Roscoe..

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

Well it was inspired by Longo Joe and his letter to his brother,
not to do with me more than that I understood the contents
of his poem and expressed it again in my way, the problem
appealed as a challenge to me. Luckily I have no difficulty
with my sister, our brother was born dead, so I was denied
either the joy or not, of having a brother, it would have been
another to communicate with, or not, as is the case here,
where the differences are great.

So Joe should get the congrats, not I.

Love and thank you from Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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