The girl from Kansas was a virgin,
who spun with silver steps
like flint casting sparks only
to die, a final note from a song.
Little Jackie Paper was not
a metaphor for imagination.
Boys do not live
forever, and Puff became less
than Smaug.
This road leads past a little field,
which is not a story--and is
a green heart, a gray artery traveling
by fiat in strange alchemy.
The world is lead under this hollow sky.
Their hoards were breath
that burns away dross,
growing smaller as we remember
tidy morals that can be folded away.
This stream no longer glitters.
Forgetting is a fire
that burns without light.
Title from a thread in Poetry Practise
Edit: cut Must I explain your stories: Twisted Angel
Made one change of my own changed smog to Smaug
who spun with silver steps
like flint casting sparks only
to die, a final note from a song.
Little Jackie Paper was not
a metaphor for imagination.
Boys do not live
forever, and Puff became less
than Smaug.
This road leads past a little field,
which is not a story--and is
a green heart, a gray artery traveling
by fiat in strange alchemy.
The world is lead under this hollow sky.
Their hoards were breath
that burns away dross,
growing smaller as we remember
tidy morals that can be folded away.
This stream no longer glitters.
Forgetting is a fire
that burns without light.
Title from a thread in Poetry Practise
Edit: cut Must I explain your stories: Twisted Angel
Made one change of my own changed smog to Smaug
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson