Fatigue
A poem by
Rowan Blair Colver
Curses! Damnation and blight,
I see the candle flame alight,
'Pon the screen of my machine,
Yet within my self it is the night,
My sun it rises soon no doubt,
Like forever in the winter drought,
Is just a mimic of eternal cold,
When truly the year is but old,
And turns around to see the view,
When everything is looking at you.
I hear the call for works and sight,
The need for me to write and write,
The pressure of ambition touches us all,
No stranger am I to its beckoning call,
But peace is found in times of song,
When nothing is still for anyone,
A snoring head in the corner lay,
My duty done for this weekend day,
Study and action in dualism flow,
Forever in the moment a passion I know,
Not one of the kind but kind of some one,
Just like ordinance of the centre of the sun,
A guess upon measures of reflected compression,
The core is suggested from natural impression,
Orbiting grip in the temporal flux,
Much betterment in the mornings as such,
Slowly but surely the candle rebuilds,
Crushing of wax from the mysterious drills,
Universe and galaxy with all in between,
The molecules of my life are still unclean,
Wiping away at specks in my brother's eyes,
Is impossible in those times when the sun is in mine.
Rowan Blair Colver
A poem by
Rowan Blair Colver
Curses! Damnation and blight,
I see the candle flame alight,
'Pon the screen of my machine,
Yet within my self it is the night,
My sun it rises soon no doubt,
Like forever in the winter drought,
Is just a mimic of eternal cold,
When truly the year is but old,
And turns around to see the view,
When everything is looking at you.
I hear the call for works and sight,
The need for me to write and write,
The pressure of ambition touches us all,
No stranger am I to its beckoning call,
But peace is found in times of song,
When nothing is still for anyone,
A snoring head in the corner lay,
My duty done for this weekend day,
Study and action in dualism flow,
Forever in the moment a passion I know,
Not one of the kind but kind of some one,
Just like ordinance of the centre of the sun,
A guess upon measures of reflected compression,
The core is suggested from natural impression,
Orbiting grip in the temporal flux,
Much betterment in the mornings as such,
Slowly but surely the candle rebuilds,
Crushing of wax from the mysterious drills,
Universe and galaxy with all in between,
The molecules of my life are still unclean,
Wiping away at specks in my brother's eyes,
Is impossible in those times when the sun is in mine.
Rowan Blair Colver
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