I. Naming Rights
Voice it craves
In amnestic form
II. The Honor Amongst Corridors
Alone, amidst the shadowed blister of an apocryphally setting moon,
I cling, for comfort, in wagered animus, hoping for deception. As the eyes of spectral fire overrides each sequacious lie. Every desired duplicitous reach, to run or scurry free—from self-sustaining hypotenuses, is bred solely by anxious corridoritry. And, only the dream alone can reconfigure such a plot, into benevolent symmetry purged from knot.
Tenuous is the string stretched long.
Without relaxed ability,
The honing of a forge,
Is satiated neither nor.
III. The Winged Flight of Forgotten Salt
A wing, alar, built by man, flutters, in discombobulated reality, stuttering the ridge of wind, searching for a gale, a gale to guide it in.
Segmented, like the annelid, I scrawl, the cemented pave, oblivious, to the light, annealing down.
It only takes four hours
For utopian idealism to drown
A song is held,
Yet estranged from preconceptions yet to come
Prosaic containment amidst battle scars—
Perfect is its rhythm—
Of precision’s quest,
Trailing the vespers coffered, still
Amongst the spackled sky,
Dreaming of terminal cessation,
Yet visions heed desire naught,
Awakened is the evensong
Pragmatagnosia rejoins the dwindled day
IV. A Lioness upons a jackal clan
Soon the syllogistic chain
Grows circular in frame
The beast bows neck
If daggers draw…
At moment’s blight,
The sheltered sun’s repaid,
By catechesis’ illustrative light
It takes but an hour
For fragrant lucidity
To cede distraught
The physiology of the mind
The sails, then breathe,
Exhale to float,
Where prisms pleasantly distort
The absolute from salt
Every inch of line,
Along it’s wave,
And so we drift….
Omphalos is nigh
Omphalus has left