In No Time.
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By orwell on
Saturday, January 1, 2005
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Is there an unheard of sense in time?
Did Beethoven mention itís remarkable
Absence in the unregistered paradise
Of a world he was refused entry too?
Yet there are epiphanies in suburban laneways
With their mean gates peeling away the suns
Exposure to rust and dye the nakedness,
On their signs, who forbid entrance to others
There revolves voids of perfected worlds
Who blow sequential rhythms in no time
between the starkest poles of an illusory surface
A power consumes, begetting these empty words.
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