That Vine/Divine.

"A poet is a dethroned king sitting amongst the ashes of his palace,

Trying to fashion an image from the ashes."

Kahlil Gibran.

i/. What a world we have, a world of solid static steely mass, of scaffoldings and penny-arcades that only serve to fuel timeless decades of walls and fences that ride the headlights of autobahns and free ways like the same heartless vein…


ii/. But also there were softer climbs, where the walls could never break the dusty spines of hills that rolled on their backs in the sun; and where i lay on a pot red roof drinking gentle rose wine, filled with the loves of friendship and the vine {divine}.


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