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Array
(
[sid] => 12988
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Fleeting Senses
[time] => 2003-02-19 22:40:00
[hometext] => The first letter of each line spells a name.
[bodytext] => How is the pounding in one's sense of sweating in the park?
Only the man with an eye single to his center knows that question. Love is the idol and his perlance worships the flame of affection. Dance, sing and fear not the insanity. Endure the stares, for fools mock the rainbow of grace. Never heed to their jests as they buzz down in laughing crowds at your tears, which only waters possibility. Calling back my serenity is all but an impossiblity. I never cared for my soft reason, delicate and lithe. So dear, that naturally, it would fly. All too soon the room darkens and maddening shadows form on my lips, thick the words form utterence, archaic, cryptic, sonorous. Under my arm I feel my heart, which sings and holds tightly to the fleeting light. Losing mercy's touch I hold fast to my head and spin into bed. First I feel like praying, but honey is not my rhetoric and I feel the curse. In the event that you find my soul, please send it to my existence. Toghether they have missed the scenery of Life. Ending this mummbling I find that I answer the question chronic, to the scene of my imbalance. Lack I the vision of future calm which so dearly invites waves of joy that I breath not, and so I yawn. Dreary is the thought and how cold is the dawn that never returns. It really is. [comments] => 5 [counter] => 181 [topic] => 39 [informant] => Keatsdogg [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Grief )
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