And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.
...at dawn, the grains of sleep turn to floating black spots, then out of focus the world tilts, and the cat scratches at the door...
A Familiar Rain
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...at dawn, the grains of sleep turn to floating black spots, then out of focus the world tilts, and the cat scratches at the door...
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My mother used to say not sleeping was the sign of a guilty mind. It could have been. There was a lot in my mind to feel guilty about. When you__e drunk and trying to sleep, your thoughts are visited by the ghosts of those deeds whose heat still glows hottest in your personal darkness. Our actions burn much longer than the moments in which they occur. And drunks like me, we hide from the glow of the embers by fueling other fires and hiding within the flames.
Love is an exorcism of angels.
I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.
If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.
Our relatedness with other living forms provides us something we sorely need: a reverence for the life of all creatures great and small, and an expanded view of our place in nature__ot as rulers over it, but as participants in it.