A Vain Show, And Transitory Poem by james watkin
A Vain Show, And Transitory
All of its nonsense does end here.
World's; its furthest blown point.
Murky but deathly stilled water's;
Of Tranquil acceptance.
Even so, which glory, gold-leafed
By what hangs, and spooks, round
Spreads, for ghosts of disillusionment
Cursed sounds. In abundance!
Sunday, February 5, 2023
Topic(s) of this poem: world,glory
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8/17/2025 10:46:38 AM # 1.0.0
