Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476763" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>More Past In My Brain As I Get Older Than Future</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">More past in my brain as I get older than future, <br>intrusive memories like ghosts come seeking absolution<br>I still can't give them sincerely after all these years <br>of irrelevant tears evaporating through holes in the ozone. <br>Things I'd wholly forgotten about, returning to this seance <br>convened by the mother of the muses in her crone phase<br>like stars and flowers come back to make you smile again <br>for something as simple as remembering their names <br>you thought you'd lost in the grass like rings on a key chain.<br>Painful images I wish I'd never lived to see<br>but came to understand slept just under the eyelids <br>of the things most people dream of damaging<br>by inflicting the worst wounds on their own savage humanity. <br>Lovers that reoccur in the night air like fireflies <br>recalling some moment when we touched illicitly <br>double-crossing all of our mutual taboos to risk <br>the burning bridge of the dangerous blessing <br>of the passionate dragon on the far shore of our urgent flesh.<br>The riverine sediments of the mindstream's starmud, <br>an encyclopedic compendium of outcomes and random eventualities. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Any single one of these mystic details is the table of contents <br>of a whole other life than the one I've been living so far, <br>stars matted in the hair of the leafless willows mad with despair.<br>Joy, pleasure, tenderness. Sorrow, anger, recrimination. <br>With the planet tilted a feather's weight more toward joy<br>on its axis, or we wouldn't have anything to cry about <br>when the season passes. When the wild irises <br>burn out like pilot lights in the urn of the furnace of the phoenix<br>losing its will to rise again out of its own ashes.<br>And through it all, so many afterlives arrested by the mystery <br>of what we were to each other now that kept <br>calling us back to each other like wolves in the fog <br>on opposite hills of the heartscape we couldn't find a way out of. <br>There's still generosity in my fingertips <br>when I touch the eyelids, the lips, the lunar thorns, <br>the feldspar pictographs that have been carved into me <br>like the braille cartouches of the dynastic royal houses and scars of love. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like to err on the side of a generous spirit as if <br>there's always a factor that stands outside the equation<br>like a fulcrum maintaining a balance that has nothing to do <br>with equality, but deeply affects the course of a parallel universe.<br>And I can see through the eyes of the chorus of a hundred voices <br>chanting like a mantra for me to look at it one<br>of a thousand other ways to say yes what happened between us <br>was meant to be, and hear all these fanatical pamphleteers<br>trying to exonerate the culpability of what we had to do <br>to survive one another like two separate shoes going their own way.<br> <br>As sorry as things often turned out, I celebrate the intent <br>because that part was honest, of who we really wanted to be <br>to each other, and hoped we were, before the labour <br>grew too intense, and we took off the pretence of our life masks <br>and stared into each other's faces like black mirrors in full eclipse.<br>And I don't need a philosophy to back me up on this. <br>It's just the way I prefer it. An artistic flourish of the soul, perhaps.<br>Blue chicory by the side of the road instead of poison ivy. <br>Strewing more rose petals on the starmap of the path <br>we walked together for awhile than thorns. <br>Trying in everything to ennoble the way <br>I'd like to see myself when I'm on my death bed, <br>not as some mean-hearted ghoul living under a bridge<br>but a man who lavished himself like poetry upon life<br>as if he were sowing stars into the abyss of the wound <br>love opened up in him like the chasm and chrysalis of a loveletter<br>always addressed to someone on the other side <br>of this surrealistically romantic starfish of a universe<br>where we first met in a ghost dance of enchanted binaries.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476763" data-title="More Past In My Brain As I Get Older Than Future de Patrick White" data-description="More past in my brain as I get older than future, 
intrusive memories like ghosts come seeking absolution
I still can't give them sincerely after all these years 
of irrelevant tears evaporating through holes in the ozone. 
Things I'd wholly forgo..."></div>
</div>
</div>