The decaying stillness of a reflection
Propping me up right to my own subjection
Outlasts the tail of dawn by ignoring God,
Glistening through each blood-orange window shard.
The magic subsides and the sad chimp returns
Swallowing the key to his own cage which burns,
Like the wrinkled marigold, words are despised
And nothing, oh nothing, can catch the man who died.
Never to be known or widely understood
The ancient compass navigates you above
To the eternity animating blood
Where a prayer disguised as a cry enslaves love.
The rigid declension flicks the stones and notes
Burrowed in breasts and chasms making music,
Here the exotically sickly air floats
Capturing essence before it existed.
The child thinks of his mother’s cries as he runs,
Cradling her hand which now never comes
To hold his hand as he prays alone under suns
Shattering the last tale which now never comes.