A short haircut. Day fleeting.
Mock me with silence of a cool breeze skin shiver
Nested in deep shadows
Of a sketchy view
Spoiled by the equal day and night patches;
For parting always comes
And I am nameless
Not admitting any feelings
And all is sorted out in a large gloom of algorithm piled suits
Waiting for first freezing words
To be all wrongly bonded
In a dark distorted hypochondriac image loaded
And then thorn apart in abstract bits
By the train horns ripping through the suburban heights
Never to live colored spring
Just to leaf walk and cling
To the pathless edge
Leading to the closing circle
“Oh, temperance, do not resist me…”


“In melancholy moonless¬†Acheron,
Far from the goodly earth and joyous day,
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,…” Oscar Wilde,¬†Charmides

Charmides or Temperance, Plato (Translated by Benjamin Jowett)

“Do not you resist me then, he said [Charmides].
I will not resist you, I replied [Socrates].”


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