Originally posted by divegeesterPerpetually blunt.
In lands I never saw they say
Immortal Alps look down
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament
Whose Sandals touch the town
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A Myriad Daisy play
Which, Sir, are you and which am I
Upon an August day?
Emily Dickinson
He continues to hunt,
For for the same stuff to shunt.
To the spirituality forum front.
The poster bearing brunt
Of this "anti-August" stunt
Is the forum grunt
Who's a bit of a ...
runt
To whom do I refer? 🙂
Originally posted by AgergDidn't mean to imply I was referring to divegeester btw ... I wasn't
Perpetually blunt.
He continues to hunt,
For for the same stuff to shunt.
To the spirituality forum front.
The poster bearing brunt
Of this "anti-August" stunt
Is the forum grunt
Who's a bit of a ... [hidden]runt[/hidden]
To whom do I refer? 🙂
- Joined
- 29 Dec 08
- Moves
- 6788
07 Aug 15
Originally posted by divegeesterBut helpless pieces in the game He plays
In lands I never saw they say
Immortal Alps look down
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament
Whose Sandals touch the town
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A Myriad Daisy play
Which, Sir, are you and which am I
Upon an August day?
Emily Dickinson
Upon this chequer-board of Nights and Days
He hither and thither moves, and checks ... and slays
Then one by one, back in the Closet lays
"The Moving Finger writes: and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it."
Omar Khayyam
Originally posted by Agergwell it sounds like that Dive Twat
Perpetually blunt.
He continues to hunt,
For for the same stuff to shunt.
To the spirituality forum front.
The poster bearing brunt
Of this "anti-August" stunt
Is the forum grunt
Who's a bit of a ... [hidden]runt[/hidden]
To whom do I refer? 🙂
When All Our Words Have Been Turned
When all our word have been turned and turned
like flowers tossed in a stormy breeze
till wind-burnt and bruised, bereft
of the brightness we once beheld in them
when first we set them out in the sun,
I sit in silence and consider
how the hummingbirds dart in bee-balm
without debate or invitation,
having borne themselves on many winds,
turned and turned, until turning
into this corner of my garden
to dance and mate the summer season,
mocking without intention
our laborious chains of reason.