by: W. A. Marshall

There’s a thornbush blocking my path
its branches shudder
from dust devils
like the tormented
coat of a colt -  
the spectral bush must burn,
for me to see
through the canonical flees
that clutter the infinite path.

My splendor is disguised however,
it hides inside my chest
I point to my breast
a parched mark of the sun,
cauterized by nations,
an open country itemization
goes further now
with the bush burned and gone  
down into a damp stairwell
the lane leads me -
where I can hear
distant hammering of fists
on rusty cellar doors
beyond view from mounted kings.

Their whispers never heard
a fat consequence
that I shave away and away
day after day
in order to admit to myself
my impatience inside a palisade
causes me to stagger.

To escape my flight
or hide when the dark night
creeps on fog and seed
howling winds blow
down the staircase
and into the cellar
where the moon collapses softly
along my reoccurring path.