In some lost, moss covered grove, lifeless, she layed…
Then Green Venus tipped her basin, showering
streams of endless water thrashing and splashing
atop her ***** then rushing down her bronzen brae.
Flushed in feminine essence, she opened
her great shell to fill with sumptuous water
‘till it spilled and gushed the ribbed edges over
and onto the soil did Spring’s milk descend.
Drenched and dripping she bursts from dormancy
to embrace her first morning of animation
through misty flurries and fluid gyration
leaving slushy trails of puddles and pollen
and, through dew soaked skies, dawn’s first amber light
Illuminates Spring, fully wakened and alive.
'The Sibyl, with frenzied mouth
uttering things not to be laughed at,
unadorned and unperfumed, yet
reaches to a thousand years with her
voice by aid of the god.' (Heraclitus, fragment 12)
She curves into touches like neurosis
beyond the threshold of insanity
breeding desire into a lovely oddity
She mends the lie in facades to
empty them into our secrecy
With a banshee's throat
she splinters time's agonies
into the likeness of what
we ordered and
brings solitude to morning's arms.
She is of Sibyls.
Bold women who once dreamt
in ambiguous shadows and
A reproof of scarlet riviera
darken its seance that acclaim unforetold entrance
of lactose hence virtual lecture,
edifice with preponderance in guidance if hesitation
ready hinders them entertained by inordinate *** and
whether garish is gruesome for glutenesque and
intricately hard to maintain as their distraction is subliminal
that pain is debilitating and overwhelming in modern lifestyle.
Terraces of aged vistas,
Old millhouses, water wheels,
Times of farming faded into antiquity,
Millstones appearing as if carried there by giants,
Man and his propensity for technology,
Even could be seen,
Back in times faded into the past,
Times hindered by stubborn thought,
The mill wheel still turning in some places,
As the river never left, And time left the building mostly alone,
Away from humans and their destructive ways.
She was this silver moon
alight her seldom seen swing
or virtually then
as time in a bottle
and in this antiquity
on Saturday night
she grew the orchard
by the cloverleaf
when her bridge opened wide
and she felt so granted
that it was her ambiance or garth
near a point then
she went combing a ride
the bus did go that way
and her muggy wantonness
burst inside her chest every moment
Globe with first snow yet.
What words would I have written then
If my fate had lied within?
Stories remembered? Studied lines?
Or eroded by passing time?
Antiquity was waiting to breathe
And awaiting the moisture of lungs.
A hole, eyeball wide, offered just a peek;
Along with an ancient mote,
Which flew from eternity into sight.
Remarkable things were seen!
In the heat the buzz was slight.
As was the bite. But, ultimately,
The fevers started burning in the night
(For after all, the cobra had eaten the yellow canary).
How your coverings and remains sparkled like the sun!
Thousands of years of hiding suddenly undone.
But, we all rot together, eventually eaten.
Now is your time.
No longer blind.
Find peace again.
Revealed without pain.
Saving a life was not enough,
Changing it for the better wasn't tough.
All in the eyes of the beholder,
Those eyes that made me bolder.
A risk taken by both sides,
A risk rewarded in tides.
For the love of Antiquity I will do anything,
For the love of Antiquity I will give everything.