[BNP/E3, 49A2 – 35]

5/8/09.

Sunset: wake of eternal.

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Desk Longo de estilo

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A sickly pride that neither spurs or blinds,

A sentiment that aches like |fear|[1]

An idle will the bright of sickened minds

This is my spart’s form. What form remains?[2]

Only analysis, keen as a knife

Slitting to dirty threads my useless life.

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Why not be conqueror o’er the things you damn

With an important nearness and with[3] soul

Hereof open in dispassionate uncontrol?

No, I can never be but as I am.

__________

Even the same at whose birth Life did slave

The door of Hope noisily now stole

Whence can I call a shill or am {…}  

 
[1] that aches like |fear| /font of remains\
[2] remains? /gains\
[3] and with /of your\