it wasn’t th' young Dylan’s mad desire
for carolling the waning moon; already
for carolling the waning moon; already
too passé this grandiloquence loosely
punctuates gestures: all is squeamish
cigarette-impaired phrases dressed on
a stage of empty destiny, ‘no-one sees
the light here’ the lead player sighed -
‘even I am drained of such emotion’
where were we before the time came,
when clashes of energy ran a flaring
furnace, when those grenades hit as
unforgettable phrases exploding into
vogue kaleidoscopes with meaning
all worn so very comfortably
© 10 February 2014, I. D. Carswell
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