Phillip Priest

January 24, 1958-Franklin
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As we were walking

the wild boy of the wind

pushed past us

kicked up some dust

then collapsed in a nearby field.

We stood

lit cigarettes

and watched

as the rain crossed the road up ahead

a frayed curtain

the clouds lowered

If we stand still too long

we will turn to stone,

becoming obstacles in the way

to those behind.

So we set off once more

knowing only

that we must always move.


meandering down a dusty road,

wondering if we will ever understand.

Ye that stand sun-high behind me

You see further than I

but you never tell me

what is coming

over the hills

that surround me.

Do you even see the shadows

that things in the light of thine eye cast?

Word has it that Thee see through it all

even the Dark curtain

that surrounds us.

From high above

I look down upon a vast snowfield of cloud.

As the sun sets

the clouds swell with

a hot redness

as if to burst into flame

and burn down the sky

but they cool to grey

then absorb the blackness

of the night.

Walking the much-walked streets

of the ever-changing City

of the same name,

No echoes

hidden in wood and stone,


on my sojourn.

Most ghosts moved away,

when the houses they rented

were torn down.


in a far country

with foreign dust upon me.

No rain or river.

I try to

limit not the Heavens

to the measure of Man.

Yet I fail

and, of course-

curse Heaven.


when upon it I reflect,

I know if one journeys

the dusty road of the World

of course one comes dirty

unto the Sun.

Enter we the morning

through a curtain of rain.


Looking for an enthralling distraction

to pin yourself to,

to make it last,

for between you and the true Self

there is a deadness-

like a mist-greyed Sunday town

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