‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.
A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.
I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.
The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,
A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.
MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.
I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.
I am left
To react.
React to what?
React to wee? React,
to relationships, React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.
Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.
The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.
There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.
'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.
