Seasoned Love's silent discourse,
Dusk of the long distance,
Beneath the mantle of lament
The peak bloom, gnawing decay,
Obscure
The weight of favor;
Annealing fire, moulded by
Winds of duration
Unfastening the raw surf of sorrow.

Incipient caprice, theft of occlusion
Colored by common defiance,
Vile tremors of privation-
Native enclave,
The province of
Vacant, age-eaten elucidation.

The tangled weave, pathos and ethos
Vested
Interior acquisition,
Furrowed paths of countenance
Evincive and drawn,
Affinity found, inhabiting the palisades
Of Immersion.

A furtive glance harbors
The trained gaze whose
Immanent flame-
Emergent
Serous source,
Imbued piercing latency;
A taste of
The fountainhead.

Unprobed theater of the absolute.

Thin supple pith
Identity sealed in skin
Perambulator of meaning and
Lineaments of cure.
Bearing the image of ubiquity
Perceives in the other,
Immortality.
Sacramental Eros,
Subsumes the
Capacity to treasure.

©2013 W.S. Warner

My body runs on anger
what shall I do with despair?
I am uncertain of how
to handle gloom and sorrow

my body runs on anger
I’ve no use of thee, despair
so out with you, oh, fowl cow
and return to the dark of below

what did this to you, my strong one?
what reduced you to such a state
so cold and pale and weak and frail
as though someone didst sedate..
wake! wake! I cannot take the wait.

you, never meek, who forbade me to weep
how can you lie so, with no trace of life?
I choked at the sight
but did not shed a single tear
I did not, I promise, not even one

the needles and pipes and tubes and pins
cover every available inch of skin
no stretch of wrinkled flesh remains unprobed
icy skin makes my blood to fire akin

vile, putrid bile rises in my throat_
wretched sorrow, arointh thee!
-I cannot handle woe.

burning alive inside my own skin, I feel,
I am suffocated into a kind of peace, a peace that says
do not stand or sit, this is good enough
a peace that is to emulate the earth,
eternal, unmoving, in accordance with being changed,
molding into the world around it
but my Lord, I hear him calling, he says that true peace is
not to stay like the earth, he says that it is
rather, to wreak a change so vast in the passion of the heart
that it can only have been caused by a vision of self
that is based in unity, to force and break something in the world
you must exist in the violence of feeling and stay true
and though the world might roll and thunder around you
your soul is stronger and has the power to gather and clench
the tendons wrapped around the galaxies
burning and writhing the masses of hurricanes
bending the will of tempests
for your soul is unconquerable, your peace shall not come from
lying down and accepting, your peace is in your core, while you are
driven irresistibly forward, like the tide of the greatest ocean,
your depths, unprobed, crevasses and mountains stretched
like continents displayed across, a nobility of design
your might, unknown, your eyes burn with a hesitancy and trust
that you cannot hide, and you shall reach your hand up
into the annals of history and tear and vandalize pages at will,
no one is going to stop you, no one can stand in your way,
for the wisest and bravest of all men will fear what you are capable of.

I’ve always been a crooked road,
Lain with thorns,
While roses watched in silence from the side.
I let myself go—
Unraveled,
Each choice trembling
At the whisper that choice should bend
To circumstance.

They say I should shift—
Mirror the view.
But when I do,
The real me starts to panic.

She is a storm unprobed,
A force better left unnamed.
I walk contradiction—
Each truth I am
Cancels out another.

But still, I remain.

I won’t drain my cup
For hands that never pour.
And I don’t expect the same—
I don’t want to be poured from an empty cup too.