The journal of Paul M. Watson.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

I woke with the echo's dying

From the pounding in my head and the crawling nest of pain in my shoulders, I knew that I had overslept. It was a common failing since my denunciation. Sleep had become a refuge for me, as wine is for other men, and like them I surfaced from an excess of it in a state of alarming decrepitutde. Where is the poet who will sing the body's agues, who will fit words to the agonies of the imprisoned spirit? Nothing can be said or written that has not been said or written before, one hundred times in one hundred tongues, about the mayfly, Love. Yet if ecstasy of the blood is a fit subject for poetry, why not is distemper also? All of humanity experiences the latter; the former passes many of us by.

From Arts and Wonders by Gregory Normington.


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