The yellow rock lilted as a lily
In the petals of foam gasping on the lake,
Nymphs with primrose braids continually
Seduced winds to the sepulchre’s of fate;
Hands shiver as naked ice before light
On the rimmed meander blurring our sight.
Harpoons rust like hearts condemned to absence
For we wait as we’re in, bred to converge
These strings plucking anguish and obedience —
Waves, melodies, swirl to violet and surge
Across Mesopotamia’s bleak hand
Grooved by mounds and stumps, eternity’s land.
His feline pounce of nature’s ancient stance
Beholds plastic jewels and golden flowers,
Brooding by the season, in the chiselled glance
Of archer’s whispering in carnal towers;
The Clock is without age or reason,
Bathing his hands in masks of season.
As the rocks dissolve into salt and ice,
Poet’s write and dance to the child’s Zephyr’s
Where the brine in waves, souls the size of lice,
Slither to the hearth of man’s blazing fire
In faith to partake in some remedy
Conceived, and ignored, by our memory.
In the alleyway of one’s destiny
Where brands blink and darken in liberty,
The great stream of the soul’s eternity
We ask: “What suppose to do, or may be?”
And those urges which made discovery
Lit thoughts of blackness with their own energy.
In the plight of gravities presence,
Doleful extremities and proposals
Seem to exist as shells in fancies sense,
Where man is reduced to nothing but roles;
In the petals of foam gasping on the lake
The yellow rock lilted as a lily…