I live in my wooden legs and O my green green hands. Too late to wish I had not run from you, Apollo, blood moves still in my bark bound veins. I, who ran nymph foot to foot in flight, have only this late desire to arm the trees I lie within. The measure that I have lost silks my pulse. Each century the trickeries of need pain me everywhere. Frost taps my skin and I stay glossed in honor for you are gone in time. The air rings for you, for that astonishing rite of my breathing tent undone within your light. I only know how untimely lust has tossed flesh at the wind forever and moved my fears toward the intimate Rome of myth we crossed. I am a fist of my unease as I spill toward the stars in the empty years. I build the air with the crown of honor; it keys my out of time and luckless appetite. You gave me honor too soon, Apollo. There is no one left who understands how I wait here in my wooden legs and O my green green hands.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
