A Frigid Death

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…