Awkward and absurd
in this moment in time,
lost among the lost,
lacking the grace of God’s
finer things,
we are given so little time
to be beautiful.
Our tiny lives
so soon forgotten,
so soon
just lists of things
to sell or give away.
The dance is a strange one,
and I could not hope to offer
any dream of meaning.
I only know
this drunken reeling
beneath a dying sun
is all we are,
this briefest of instants
as we brush death aside
to wait jealous
and vengeful in the hungry shadows.
i aspire to be a writer like wm taylor jr…kick ass
william taylor jr: i feel this poem every day.
it is my internal dialogue. beautifully put.
thank you.
Poets are often dismissed, accused of being just teen
angst that’s never grown up.
But, when I read William Taylor Jr. I see grown up writing.
And I really wish that I could slow down my snail’s paced life
to really look at things the way he does.
Not that it would make any difference in the world, but it
would be fun to be able to see things the way Bill sees
things, if just for a little while.
So, I’m grateful I’m able to read him. It makes the dull ache
pound a little less, and the world seems brighter in that one
instant.
– –
Okay,
Father Luke
can’t wait to read your new so book…b
So aptly put about being given so little
time to be beautiful…which dot is Earth
let alone the people on the land?