Philip Glass - The Poet Acts
(It bursts. Open. A wind.
A small crack of such streamings. The pain somewhere in between. The subtle animosity.
A shift in tone.
Once again, but stronger now. Long, sharper string thread. A bold march through a field of dark gray notes, leaning against your legs, warm somehow.
Minor.
Let it bloom. Let it swallow. Me. I go.
This is how it comes, this is how it disappears; stronger, weaker. Tidal refrain. I along.
Once again. Once again. Still at the same pauses as first, but so much more now, so much more.
Until it dies a moment, into less.
Only to come back again. A rephrase, a thought. Still those same notes. Endless field. Leaning slower. In the wind.
Straw and straw and straw. All added, all joining. The march. As with a million feet. Under hidden faces, staring at the ground. This will never end. I hope this will never end.
Despite the
Sadness.
The cold stream like sea pier wind enwrapping encasing cutting around desperate certain feet.
Until only wind. And off.)
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
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