Nov 142013
Soul's a moment's melody
(As Mallarme reported).
Each breath is every sigh recorded,
One tear is all the sea.

Lucid glycerins distill, intend,
All God may mean by being:
Loving nearly to the pain of seeing,
Forgiving even the end.

Less than Time attempts is this "I"--
Burnt between the matchstick's start
And pumiced embers morosely blown--
Condensed intense in each spark of eye.

It is a malady a moment,
This soul--and then, neant.

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