The Final Movements in My Poem Drafts

Forest dwellers magnificent in your simpleness, all second beings in value throughout society,
I feign strength at the knife whose blade remains title bound and in whose hands slice deeply, ripely,
Through these endless bloody times with the grace of a King, aggrieved, locked deep in his impropriety,
And who glistens the tear from the eye of the priest, at death's calm knell, shaped so very concisely,

I cannot fall into that dark garden, no! Nor fathom the damp cold pit of lowly despair, uttering liberal platitudes,
And I shan't crawl as if a wounded deer - through forests of sane, pure and brightly lit shaded, fainted paths,
Weeping in pain o'er the course of my gently feathered, softer repose, expressing considerable latitudes,
Those which make up the saintly and blessed scope of the freedom of my actions or thoughts and gaffes,

( Lo, I shall lay at the feet of the holy, face up as the rains find me, and await the final movements in my poem drafts. )

Thom Douglas Carlisle (Irish Tommy Moran) - Ireland

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