There is a curse hovering over the sea of dreams
On an isle a lady lamenting a woman's plight
Trapped in tower pale images in mirror glide
Longing for Camelot or was it Avalon
she so desired
The Lady of Shalott weaving the threads of time
She's ' half-sick of shadows '
Dying dreaming of Lancelot
Of her love unworthy a knight that couldn't see
The rose the Sacred Heart within the divine lady
But the prison is ours the tapestry woven already
As the artist dips his brush in the paint of vision
' The mirror crack'd ' as she saw truth
And death is like that leaf flying away
Falling rising as light in night as end of day
On her boat on the river she sings the Divine Comedy
Far up to Heykhalot the Lady of Shalott
But where is he to hear her song
To etymology
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trips
Poetrytalking about trips don't trip don't move don't groove sitting in street poverty such cross nailing you down in the tomb of lost paradise eating at your brain your eyes your infinite holes piercing the guts of well-fed bourgeoisie never gave you...
