The larking daylight swings on pitched eaves.
My eyes are like honey bees.
Eastern oil smeared canvas.
Sailing up the golden
boughs. A beginning.
The living daylight. The,
Living, daylight.
Coursing, pulsing, vital, daylight.
Touched by melodious supple honey,
I am alive.
Yet beneath me there is no light.
Beneath me there is no rise.
I stand on a tomb.
A bivouac of decay.
Lifeless forms sheltering
the colony queen;
the mother.
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Aaron, I don't quite understand this poem, but that doesn't make it any less awesome. The diction is vivid and I like the contrast between life and death. By the way, what is a bivouac?
ReplyDeleteIt reminds a bit of Kubla Khan and I think your imagery is amazing. You have a sophisticated voice that is commanding on the page.
ReplyDeleteI like your dramatic change in tone and diction from the first half to the second half of the poem and how it reflects your evolving view of life.
ReplyDeleteI love the shift in the second half of the poem, the imagery is beautiful, and of course the word "bivouac" makes the poem even more amazing. (bivouac is such a cool word I love how it sounds).
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