There is a dark glory in the aftermath of a life lived for
the mundane,
Powerless
quickening to family’s ghosts,
Pursuant unto human failure
So
astounding as to thicken the blood with grave’s seeding,
A morbid host flaunts my presence on this night,
A fortune’s
boast ruins the ego-driven trivialities of white-milk mentalities
Breathing in the hoarse visions,
To
announce:
“Wisdom is dead,
yet why do you flee to such eternal misery?”
“Where in your graceless
fornication with speed did you create to destroy and listen only to silence?”
A great tormented void rings over the binding salt of my
sleepless thoughts
Called
forth into being by the bone-skinned drum of life’s flow,
A drawing
from
the
well,
A sacred heat
Below the
eardrum’s fall to a coarse truth;
“We
all feel undone by shameful tragedy.”
A distinct forging into the now dizzy percepts of a
lingering eye
Finding
beyond the brush stroke predawn –
The blinking heart of the drum impresses the joy of the
animal womb,
To dream anew
No comments:
Post a Comment