what may be now.
eternal spins her cobwebs
in human hearts where reigns such hidden chides
no more as wise than greets each sudden fall.
prophecy on the scent of quiet days
trailing waste through endless lots
to the here and now of effervescent kind.
that life may never end.
at least our own
ourselves alone to squander days supreme
to empires bright with curious surmise
as why we spin as sleepless valleys roar
pole to pole
as far as south dare go.
old waterfalls where troubled oceans roar
as one with light that circles scant contempt.
are we but one
buttons on the trench coat of desire
seeding cedars needles, cones and bark
rolling through the thunder of their eyes
to a galaxy of far away intrigue.
what may be now.
the book that hooks it\'s teeth behind the sun
behind unravaled symphony
one on one
duelling stars both rich with ambergris
each their own in shade of somewhere else
floating with the debris of accountable unease.
where sleeps so shall I follow
as hollow as a gaunt and dying man.
I need no christ to supper, nor to swallow
nor do I care avenge a high command;