The Rain Dogs of The Golden Age (Memory)

Recalling Beauty long forgotten, changed and twisted, brainless louts

The Earth possesses. Lost are they I once beheld, now losing in

The game they nearly won. While laughing deathly frequencies in doubt,

 

Perceptions only serve up vomit; plaguing fleas on louts do cling

Within The Golden Age. The mighty hand should sanction urgently.

I watch from windows lost companions: Beauty, Angel, Hassan (kin).

 

The picture, while preserving only glimpses into memory,

Can, sometimes, mix with our desire to grow a rose with countless thorns.

Intrinsically concealed clichés in cells evoke a sadness free.

 

The first in view is Beauty, dressed in white, leapt like a rabbit born

With fire inside, waiting, eager like kings to burn at adulthood.

She now awaits her judgement, hoping never will it come with scorn.

 

The Angel’s soul shined sorrowfully, tempting everyone it could.

Experience has since led them astray. The path will call them back

When jaded saddled hillocks turn to mountains steep. They’ll land with thuds!

 

My dearest Hassan. Oh! The guilt! Hellish circles wait for their attack.

The changes he was going through can’t even be used!

The personality was gleaming, but ephemeral like barracks.

 

I should have known, naïve as I was, soldiers crave a battle. Abused

Are those they leave behind. The lights can burn a short while to leave

A smile but Time will tell of winners, also plagues, while losers roost!

 

I guess I’ve never really loved, the Age of Gold makes sure you reap

What farmers sow. I tried but failed at finding any door at all.

The season dry is almost here, the Wheel reminds my mind to weave

 

These thoughts of guilt, desire and memory when I am standing tall.

Then, putting down the picture, curtains opened, targeting a scene

Imaginary, Aristotle’s knowledge, sealed and bright, with scrawl,

 

Transformed me into thinking ‘What is golden about being mean?’

 

Brooklyn