torn free from the ground of
pregnant ideas and withered
internal dialogues.
aloof in the face of destiny, crying
for refuge among the disowned,
the dismembered, the disinterested. i
alone exist in the maelstrom of abstraction
crafted painstakingly through my ages
and seasons.
a mind as sharp as mine
to raise me without feathers
and place me
among the mulch.
i blanket my canvas with
woes and worries alike, neglecting
the foul-mouthed begotten son
arranged among the pillars left standing.
crooked trees and iced stone to
vibrate
through these ears of clay.
i miss the days of youthful
ignorance and exuberant hope shot at my
future like a cannon of pride
and confidence.
today the final summer flowers exhale
notes of sweet becoming, ever mingling
with the hum of nature's eternal embrace.
the bodies celestial in ambiguity spin and
swirl in irrevocable sincerity. from rise to
fall, through night and naught, the world
recurs again to weave itself anew.
