She is there, somewhere,
a hanging grail that it is
on a neck that dreams spoon up on.
The photograph is laughing,
in my empty tombstone box,
lid 'been left aside tonight.
Ringing to the next morning,
not to have a look at ore
and for the other, closing:
Deeds to us are spoken words
Visions, we gave enough
Tasting nothing, yet this guff,
Is to touch you -- reaching fluff.
Thourn Whaul
060721
Gabriel Cornelius von Max (1840 - 1915) link