what may be now

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;