a thunderclap of time is splitting forward all,
the wanderlust of youth to grim,
the shedding of the fall to whim,
the balmy boon of spring to sin,
dividing rife exotic rain
from dry ephedra sprawl,
streaming sunlight angled in
for an ever-quaking earthwise view.
din clatter to escape with dryad love
the hackberry staff of age,
will only rouse the voice of life
to rake its noisome wisdom where i trod,
despite my neophytic whines,
echoed deep in aether cave
of cobwebbed narthex eye
and sage to say the ever-new adage,
'Physis surrounds you too, by the Cycle always bound; live, defy, but soon heed destruction's sound'
..from thickets widely known
to those entrancing dark,
in winged voice alone,
and burning angers lark..
"so, these hooves of sharpened sense are but a poor recompense, when time will wash and slap away the stars. winding words around your path are but a mortal aftermath of vanity and heady lust astray..."
but when scars of war are more than scars,
and vanity and lust are here,
i'd rather spin a tale than trail a tear
across a continent in shards.
through land thick with mind, our
much trodden moss of reveries, and
dimlight gyrewinds of overmind,
the spell our mythos cast
was not for me, but many kinds of me--
the sparkling soup of life in time
shining toward an end and of a kind
of dawning leap the soaking leaf
must make from under rain, at last
for fatal progeny to bend awake
from drifting seed and hapful bed,
by wolfine sleekness take
the ****** consequence in hand:
with final gust incurvate rend
forestal haze of drunken bloom--
the satyr's gait of musky sates
speaks of pleasures gleaned from
blushings red embraced in rooted green
pervading summer night.
bright, bright! inner light is spent
twining two experiments
of cryptic faerie nooks
and sun-baked lace of vines,
the whimper glint of cool delight
on cheeksweat riding trunks of sprite
of bubbling springs and gossamer lives,
unbridled canopy of sighs.
twirling softly, colors *** for bee
and butterfly, prying life and fertile
nectars pour with ease spread brighter still
and sighing on to sip the spell to last...
but sweet is over always soon, for
'honey never drips from lazy hive
nor pollen drift off sickly drone.'
the tempest comes, effluxive force
of noontide awe and verging grin,
battered branching sways the forest new,
with willows whisking seeds from under dew.
