Christ on their lips…

Christ on their lips, hazarding their souls– never any strange illusions of salvation, but accordingly I will descend to particulars. Of a melancholy that extends itself to all– I speak of small animals and of dark anatomies.  There is a trepidation perceived in them all– which is especially perceived from a high hill.  It is true that there is a natural antipathy between the singular and the plural.   It is also true that if you put a bird in a cage it will die from asphyxiation.  But who is unaware of these common horrors?  I will speak of others.
The poets are most subject to this malady.   From the violence of melancholy, they run mad and away.   I could relate many stories of poets that have died from grief, but they are common in every province and every body politic; their particular symptoms are as follows:

Uncivil, but obedient to the effect of expectation – with their tears, vows, and all their rhetoric, they are the ones who languish in many fair built and populous cities, and are made mute by the closing of a door.
Or is it that there are so many that they have become ‘a commonwealth of disease.’?


About Christopher Anthony Leibow

Christopher, currently lives in Salt Lake City, with his sweetheart and son and their dog. He is a 2 time Pushcart nominee and Utah Book Award Nominee, he has been published in numerous journals and online. View all posts by Christopher Anthony Leibow

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