"triumvirate" poems
Goodbye! Goodbye!
and so I bid,
Silent Farewells; as tears I hid,
behind myself; accede to die.
As you lie unconscious,
In all your might you sleep.
I sit beside you two, ruminating deep:
"My life without you; how monotonous."
Then gather the bits that remained intact,
to press my lips against your cheeks.
Without you knowing all of these,
I will forever bury this poignant fact.
Now I leave to do the things,
I need to do as I turn my back...
on you my dear brothers,
one thing I promise.
i will be back.
s o o n e n o u g h.
I W i l l B e B a c k .
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC
shapeshifter, son drunk
& changing skins.
he digs up skeletons of a spanish battalion
buried
by tigers on the garden key.
suncresent
spray of blood & oranges.
new-fangled sailors once soaked
in madness.
now just starvation.
the viking speaks:
in limericks of new world poise.
his antler woven mask,
set nicely upon the shore.
seod, turtle lord
of space & time, appears only once
every lunar eclipse. bound by treatise
to the jellyfish triumvirate.
his acolyte,
bolivar t. shagnasty,
wanders the mainland in search of water
or meat of trees.
kindness
of men turns to dust & belly worms.
forgotten, the plants mutate
into root-rich empires
of fish & figurine.
million year armistice.
dr. samuel mudd,
shackled years to tide-slab &
fort jefferson. he
purifies the island of its yellow
shivering death.
hospital key.
fastforward hundred plus years
through mudd lifeline:
battle weary sneakers,
spokes sung by strum of card, the bmx
stridden boy & his
teenage mutant ninja turtle mask.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
symptoms of anhedonia.
a triumvirate, perceived
Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
noir
from **** knows where.
their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
reach into my prozac pillboxes
&crunch my anxiety (meds)
into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
their yellowing teeth.
I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks
For He Sits At midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch , ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For *they will not
leave me
untilthe
cloyingly sweet
perfume of Death
is scrubbed clean fromthe
pulse
point
of
my
wrists*
There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.
Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.
here is the untruth:
i am here,
Penelope at her loom,
waiting for a lost lover whom I know
will take ten years to come back to
my awaiting arms.
here is the untruth:
in three years time,
I’ll still be dead.
here is the truth:
nothing exists six feet under except:
hell
chalk dust
powdered calcium.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
contradiction, sorrow, and vulnerability,
a trine labeled as all mine,
yet, this triumvirate, well know & shared,
but more and moreover,
set aside if/when well dared
this comatose trilogy that so oft astrides,
when the beacon moon stands us up
with white lightening,
after hope has washed away,
out to the sea deep of
crusty sleep,
newer versions of older stories uncovered,
re-revealed,
warmth, golden light and
hope above hope,
in the weakened human heart are,
must be,
unsealed...
a lovely one, a rising one, a revelatory,
a poem releasing secrets,
we can all, with time, all of us,
be healed...
1:40 am
nyc
one new day,
today
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
hapax legomenon “Texas Women”
**(hapax legomenon: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)
(Texas Women: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)**
for
ꏳJ LꂦVꏂ & Cne’
once again, they sweet sweep me off my feet,
carry me to the Court of Finger Wagging,
to be accused of hating and/or loving Texas Women
simultaneously, diffidently, consequentially, unclearly differentially
this is no flower picking exercise, shaking of the head,
“he loves me, he loves me not,” rinse and repeat,
a northern trick to confuse the plano truth,
warns the Judicial Triumvirate
your Honors, I swears,
never wrote those conjunctive words,
Texas, Women,
never ever, until just now,
a genuine hapax legomenon
akin to taking god’s name in vain,
if one dare ever utter these words, and
blows the opportunity,
well, shotgun, if you know what I mean,
one gets only
one chance
so cut me quick to the chase’s conclusion
let’s go to my defense single & singularly:
true, of women I have written, and
“too much,”
is a mere theortical constriction
I love to love women,
and a 57 variety pak is a-ok by me
an inordinate number of poems may have referenced
females hailing from a certain great state,
but never together, side by side, have I ever employed
that phrase, for my imaginations
are more than sufficient
have loved women from many places, too many faces,
some beyond measure, now a forever,
a hoarded memoir unpublishable treasure,
some, it’s true, possessed jeans and a cowboy hat,
and dangerous boots, which one admired from a
goodly distance
they brook no con, tilting their heads quizzically,
there is no maybe with women from this place,
maybe you love us, maybe not, but either way,
there ain’t no maybe in our emotional lexicology!
ok.
the only woman I ever hated is dead and buried,
and yes, I shot her dead for being ornery cactus mean,
so by this roundabout roundup summation,
you may put your head on pillow tonight,
smiling confident thinking that your hapax legomenon,
is deep in the heart of a grown boy hailing from nyc,
still a crazy straight shooter
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC
triumvirate
the fulsome
curse word
that deformed my tongue-
the teeth
in glaze
of remnant
soap-
and the shadow
my mother’s finger
left
inside my cheek
which I coaxed
into cigarette
and scrubbed with.
divine instance
regarded by a daylight raccoon
a man tries to think of nothing.
the raccoon’s eyeful of hunger
a far off religion
the dead of which
orphaned only
a few.
the bent pipe of its back
the gnomic antique
of a raided circus.
its claws
the common salvage
of row fire.
so fully raccoon
it might’ve been
earlier
what now
it would fight.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
*Bus poems are shorties written on the way home,
riding the M31 thru Manhattan. Often silly, often not...*
There is a contest that does not involve my P.S.F.
(Preferred Sport Franchise) this weekend,
truly don't give a good ****** who wins,
but that is no excuse to deny me my sir sore-losing,
victim status,
so richly deserved.
A triumvirate of doctor, g.f. and medical tests,
have on the field ruled,
once a year, a conjugal visit permitted,
tween my arteries and chicken wings.
there will pigs in blankets demanding attention,
potato knishes, and cole slaw juices, and a
foreign dignitary, Sayyid Cous-Cous,
lining up along side the quarterback who will be
'winging' honey and spicy passes to his favorite receiver,
this couch coach and impartial observer.
This is my Sunday fare.
If insufficiently highbrow,
for all you poetic aesthetes,
have no fear,
this athlete gastronomic,,
victim of his victuals,
will prepare mentally
by hanging with King Lear once more,
sharing a verbal tasting menu,
the day prior,
who once called me,
at a Giant super bowl party,
*“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel ***** one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.”*
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
for I work by day, but live by night
not an axiom, a formula, for success and wealth,
not a suggestion, not seeking a reaction,
it is a plain as night
fact,
still don't recommend it as a way of life
but if the shoe/life fits
wear it,
even as no sleeps. speeds up your arrival
at the Grand Central Terminal
in black eyed circles, endless pointless future worrying,
in bad poems writ after midnight after midnight
when the quiet
keeps you company - a friend that asks for nothing
(but an occasional mention in one of the poems born
in the delivery room of the dark)
but through the nighttime writing escapades
I am more than renewed,
a born again human
with a covenant, armed to the teeth,
drinking his dis-owned fluids and juices,,
spilling out as staccato words,
ha!
splitting his infinitudes
if you had foreseen this as my future fate,
a lonely human up all night,
with the night and words making his
holy triumvirate, I may have thought
there are worse ways to prepare
for the silence that comes after
the no more arrives
and we depart
ensemble,
ensemble
8/31/17
2:28am
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
when you poem me,
*and the sudden tumble
into a mesmerizing moment,
is a felling of a tree, that
everyone can hear, anywhere,
forest everywhere,
suddenly, I will know you,
no introduction required...
to be with you, and save my
day, my heart stolen, and to my
captor, I hereby surrender,
capitulate completely, quick quiet,
and we are three thrilled together, a triumphant triumvirate,
for each other and a unity of
1 + 1= 3
is a new counting,
a unique
formulation
a formidable forming
a mutual following,*
a fellowship
nml
Weds.
June 18 3025
In the sunroom
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 12:23 PM UTC
i. lionhearted girl
with teeth and ambitions bared
in a gentle heart.
ii. the strongest metals
between iron and silver
are your elements.
iii. a force of nature
like a warm ray of sunshine
on a winter day.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
...Kites, Roses and Apple Pie...
In life, in deeds,
You have been, still are, courageous
In your words, in your creeds,
I say you are all so sweet,
Infectious,
You all are contagious!
Just a single line of your words
Would surely, quickly be re-quoted.
You are exemplary in
Whatever you say or do...
Enlightened are those with furrowed brows
Upon reading your works,
Commendations,
And acclamations
Bothered by ideas and words
So foreign and difficult...
Clarifications,
simple explanations
Readily are provided...
One need not ask...
Like well respected, learned leaders,
Actions, words are emulated.
You are sweet...
You are infectious...
You are contagious!
If you were colorful kites,
Soaring up the blue skies
You would have so many tails
Hanging, trailing behind you...
Here in our world
Your followers are like ants
Trailing your footsteps...
Never straying, not at all waning,
But multiplying.....
In a bed of roses,
Bees, birds and butterflies
Would never stop fussing
Endlessly buzzing
From up above, and all around you...
Taking all their needs,
Not forgetting themselves to feed,
To recreate, from your seeds
these, they are bound to heed...
If you were a plate of fresh,
Yummy and crusty apple pie,
With a scoop of ice cream on top..
Oh me, oh, my....I am bound to starve...
Pardon me, but...
This would be my call, my turn...
Surely, I would be oblivious
The first one to be ravenous
To the point of being outrageous
Can't stop...can't wait...
This is my moment:
As long as I have a mug of hot brewed coffee
I shall take my time...
I won't feel choked,
Won't even be thirsty...
Voraciously, I would finish the whole plate off...
Til crust and crumbs fill me with too much stuff...
For the Triumvirate of Bala, Nat and Pradip...
***in alphabetical order, no one comes first or last... for these three are
all soaring high in their respective styles of poetry...***
***there are many others worth mentioning, a plethora of names and styles, in fact...
the right words, the right moment would present itself to yours truly, one day...***
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
...kites, roses and apple pie
(A repost from 2014...edited)
In life, in deeds,
You have been, still are, courageous
In your words, in your creeds,
I say you are all so sweet,
Infectious,
You all are contagious!
Just a single line of your words
Would surely, quickly be re-quoted.
You are exemplary in
Whatever you say or do...
Enlightened are those with furrowed brows
Upon reading your works,
Commendations,
And acclamations
Bothered by ideas and words
So foreign and difficult...
Clarifications,
simple explanations
Readily are provided...
One need not ask...
Like well respected, learned leaders,
Actions, words are emulated.
You are sweet...
You are infectious...
You are contagious!
If you were colorful kites,
Soaring up the blue skies
You would have so many tails
Hanging, trailing behind you...
Here in our world
Your followers are like ants
Trailing your footsteps...
Never straying, not at all waning,
But multiplying.....
In a bed of roses,
Bees, birds and butterflies
Would never stop fussing
Endlessly buzzing
From up above, and all around you...
Taking all their needs,
Not forgetting themselves to feed,
To recreate, from your seeds
these, they are bound to heed...
Now,
If you were a plate of fresh,
Yummy and crusty apple pie,
With a scoop of ice cream on top..
Oh me, oh, my....
I may not forget these three men,
But....I am bound to starve...
Pardon me, but...
Surely, I would be oblivious
The first one to be ravenous
To the point of being outrageous
Can't stop...can't wait...
This is my moment:
As long as I have a mug of hot brewed coffee
I shall take my time...
I won't feel choked,
Won't even be thirsty...
Voraciously, I would finish the whole plate off...
Til crust and crumbs fill me with too much stuff...
::::::::::::
For the Triumvirate of Bala, Nat and Pradip...
in alphabetical order, no one comes first or last... for these three are
all soaring high in their respective styles of poetry...
there are many others worth mentioning, a plethora of names and styles, in fact...
Sally
Copyright 2014
rrab
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 6:24 AM UTC
~
infinitude (noun): the state, the quality of being without limit, infinite
~
drew first breath, woken to the heart’s rpm thankless task,
conscious aware, that solved proofs deny infinitude,
yet, triumvirate of five senses, brain waving,
a steadying thumping heart,
all asking why not?
can I will it?
the body’s parts convene, debating furious, some claiming
a sell-by-date cellular programmed, nothing to be done,
dimming of the day, a human necessity, the self-salvaging process
but a single cell, a mouse-sized squeaker, boldface stuns,
*”feed me, moisturize, give me sleep + blue blood nourishment,
I’m good to go in a forever Iditarod!”*
the others ashamed of their festival of fear, knowing well
what has gone before, dreaming thoughts of infinitude, go silent,
while “why not?”
lingers in the lungs, the breathable shared, atmosphere,
the senses spread the quest to every remote province,
with each continuing a chant grows ever louder,
a millennium of poems concealed, yet awaiting conception,
all entitled,
“why not”reverberating.
<+>
7:36am 2022020
nyc everywhere
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 3:23 PM UTC
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst *******
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
*********** therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
We, three children,
bound by that gossamer of a weaving.
Oh, Mama’s moon.
“I’ll cook one for each of you, my triumvirate.”
“One I give to you, my Oldest”.
She clasps it to her heart.
The tide rises,
men fall.
“To you Middle One, this.”
She tinkers the heart that made it.
The world bleeds,
men fall.
What of mine?
To oblivion it is: I will stash.
I, Older than my grandmother, and to her.
But Oblivion’s easy, a fish caught mine.
Mama sung, we slept.
“Hush, my dear triumvirate, tomorrow
we’ll cook again.”
Crescent smiles formed our lips.
Three moons, crushed to smithereens;
And so was her sanity, and ours.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
dear young foolish little me,
when you join the first triumvirate,
it will seem like the most infinite, right thing to do.
you will be wrong.
it'll all start off with faint words,
bright smiles and silly things,
in the smallest yet largest of worlds.
but friend, you will find yourself,
on the other side of a fence,
you think you'll never cross.
yet the triumvirate will,
and i do mean will,
lead you down the road most steep and most taken,
until your old self has vanished entirely.
on this road you'll all leap into a lake,
a world much larger and daunting,
but you will quickly warm up to it.
you'll spend too much time worrying
over a silly piece of seaweed,
leaving only a duo to steer a boat for three.
soon they'll grow tired of your talk of seaweed.
the loud one will become silent;
the gentle will boldly curse your name.
the first triumvirate will not last.
and you will not fixate on this seaweed forever.
you will rediscover your old self,
renovated and broken all at once.
in fact, darling, you will eventually find yourself,
in a second triumvirate.
this like the last, in that there are three.
but unlike in that of course, this time it will last.
or so you think.
you will grow close with the young,
who finds the same seaweed just as fascinating.
the outspoken will speak out of hand,
and the triumvirate will be worn.
i am uncertain of the future of this second triumvirate.
oh future me, i am young, foolish, and little.
please,
will this triumvirate last?
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
I stand here, lords, a humbled man, to bow
Before divine arbitrament with you.
Tell me the damage of my botchery,
And do not let my title tie your tongue.
Unfold his ballot, and unveil my doom.
TLACAELEL
Great Speaker of the state of Mexico,
It is my solemn duty to report
That, by the power vested to my role
In this most sacred trial by tournament,
Your bounty due unto this king shall be . . .
[Opens the second wager.]
Three turkey ***** of prime and grade-A stock.
MOTECUHZOMA
You staked your kingdom on three gobbling birds?
Why did you shy to wager higher, man?
HUNGRY PRINCE
My father always warned me, never bet
For more than what you know you might receive.
MOTECUHZOMA
But- grinning simpleton- what will you do
With burlap sacks of poultry for a prize?
HUNGRY PRINCE
Why, I’ll farm out a new triumvirate.
The old one closed from lack of membership.
MOTECUHZOMA
Not hamstrung by a certain turkey’s qualms?
HUNGRY PRINCE
But poachered by the greater gobbler.
MOTECUHZOMA
So you shall never gain my kingdom now.
HUNGRY PRINCE
And you can never keep your kingdom now.
MOTECUHZOMA
That fails to follow. Who could rival me?
HUNGRY PRINCE
You’ll follow my allusion soon enough,
Once your own subjects fail to follow you.
MOTECUHZOMA
Fool! What I banked on was your fantasy.
HUNGRY PRINCE
Friend, what you staked on was my prophecy,
And what I prophesied, the gods confirm
By our ill-tilting trial in this field.
I have foretold your empire shall be lost,
And lost it shall be, to my heart’s dismay.
And therefore, farewell Mexico! Or else,
Farewell, Motecuhzoma. I’m afraid
One must be sacrificed to speed the other.
MOTECUHZOMA
Why know you not, straw man, I am the empire.
My doctrines are her laws; her braves, my brawn.
It is my veins her riches run through, sir,
And when she prays, it is my vows she breathes.
HUNGRY PRINCE
But when she suffers, you repose and dream,
And when she starves, her rumblings go unheard,
As you crack crab shells at the groaning board.
A pretty study, then, in symbiosis.
MOTECUHZOMA
Why bandy taunts with this malingerer?
Let’s penitently tender sacrifice,
And leave this dreamer to his reveries.
It seems such visions reign these days.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
The drawing in of Michael
The rubbing out of Sunny
The emptiness of Fredo
Three brothers
On the money.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 6:22 PM UTC
First Official s u m m e r Saturday,
weather personas correctly (!) advertise two hours of
sunny morning before the clouded
vanilla parchy brow of the sky
occludes any May
summertime fantastical notions
Sun low in the eastern sky crests at
acute angles,
and spills rays thru the tree'd
frothy cappuccino branches, which
under the influence of drunken
substantive gusts, shakes the rays
on the bright green lawn stage, casting a huge patchwork of shadows, and it's easy to conceive
many tall giant ballerinas dancing in a chaotic disharmonious modern choreography
Perhaps it's a Parson's choreo,
more likely the akimbo nature
of the motion motif,
a Body Traffic concoction
But the sun is gone by 9:30am,
the green stage is now just a
plain old green screen,
the shadowy ballerinas banished,
and my hand held porcelain mug,
frames the denuded scene,
only the invisible wind remains
to say:
*oh it's you human,
back in para-dise,
did you expect perfection
of hot sun & hot coffee
awaiting your return?*
*East come, Easy West go,
this version of my true unheated coloration disappoints,
but I wait in on/no human,
said the triumvirate,
that rule the sky,*
*on this island of perpetual sunsets,
we do not guarantee a seating
of matched sets,
but visit with us tomorrow,
with poem praiseworthy,*
and then,
again,
who ever knows?
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025 at 11:50 AM UTC
Trinity
Three times
I’ve seen them
crossing the yard
but three weeks ago
led leashed by the dog
to the solemn Norway spruce
that celebrates mass
and blesses her gifts
her third offering that morning.
Enamel blue sky
after a three day snow
precise transverse incision
above the southern horizon
inscribed by a thieving sun
that pockets the night
in minute slivers
we’ll never miss.
Motor drone
born full term
into silence
triplets
soothing themselves
a low hymn sung in one voice
graces the frame
at three o’clock
tacking west to skirt the zoo.
Slender as books
of stillborn poems
wing spans a third or better
the length of each slippery
yellow lozenge
nosing ahead
through alphabets
of airy verse hacked
to pieces in prop wash.
Details, details
devil detained at the boarding gate
pilots banking for their final run
feathering sticks
dipping wings
in watery sunlight
haloed crosses peeling off
one two three
the dog and me
retracing our steps
one short of a triumvirate.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
No know sense of infinitude (asking why not?)
~
noun: the state, the quality of being without limit, infinite
drew first breath, woken to the heart’s thankless task,
conscious aware, that the solved proofs deny infinitude,
yet, triumvirate of five senses, brain waving, a steadying thumping heart,
all asking why not?
can I will it?
the body’s parts convene, debating furious, some claiming
a sell-by-date cellular programmed, nothing to be done,
dimming of the day, a human necessity, the self-salvaging process
but a single cell, a mouse-sized squeaker, boldface stuns,
”feed me, moisturize, give me sleep + blue blood nourishment,”
the others ashamed of their festival of fear, knowing well
what has gone before, thought dreaming of infinitude, go silent,
while “why not?”
lingers in the lungs, the breathable atmosphere,
the senses spread the quest to every remote province,
with each continuing a chant grows ever louder,
a millennium of poems concealed, yet awaiting conception,
all entitled
“why not”reverberating.
<+>
7:36am 2022020
nyc everywhere
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 7:43 AM UTC
I have garnered such wealth as I have
Through, if I may be so bold as to say so,
A preternatural ability to observe and catalogue
The foibles and follies of my fellow man
(This hard-won sagacity not the product
Of what I have learned as much as
The sum of what others do not know of themselves)
Yet, even though I believed
I had plumbed the very depths of absurd behaviors,
The prospect of kings--no, more than that,
Kings among kings-- bearing gifts
And complete fealty to some rank infant
Rudely swaddled and propped upon damp straw
Has brought even myself to bafflement.
Understand, the charms of children
(And the commensurate commercial usefulness)
Are not unknown to me,
But they are mercurial, undependable beings,
As ephemeral as the light of stars
Which allegedly acted as a guide to that trio of sovereigns
As their retinues crossed sand and savanna
(I sometimes chuckle to myself at the notion
That perhaps unwarranted clouds
Could have obscured the object in question,
And that the triumvirate could yet be
Wandering, searching, ruminating in vain)
Such intangibles are nonsense, of course;
Mere fol-de-rol entertained by those
Who would disdain the heft of solid coin,
The grit of good sand and dirt
Providing the assurance of good footing
As one saunters across the landscape
Upon such a night as this,black and unilluminated
As the aftermath of death itself.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC