The
theme of ownership has ravished many a man,
Its
tooth has sawed bone for circular clue
The
enamel dries stained,
O’er some the answers sent unkind
Am I a good man, one who should be pleased when
pleasure approaches me?
Yes
and no, I do believe, we each carry sides of two
Can I walk the gates without the scarab’s quickened
crawl?
If
the gate is warm to key, I believe that even these danceless feet can carry
me. Yet the beetle, despite its size,
carries unpleasantries from ancestral times, to which I am sure I cannot race,
I must escape.
Yet will I, perhaps that is the question to be
asked?
To
this I dare not venture toward; to this I dare not travel for. Perhaps is such the easy out, the scapegoat
for uncertain mouths, yet perhaps is sometimes the only mustered word that is
true
Can I carry on in such a manner, will this supper
by my last, shall the coats defy my skin, protect me not from days of biting
cold, Is there a divinity that will one day show me, a face, a voice, yet none
of these are what I seek, it’s but a vote of confidence to keep. Will these puzzles ever solve?
Carry
on I will as I can, if languor scoffs its feet upon my mat, I can only converse
in how I may. Supper is what is served,
in the eve, before retire, something set to stimulate desire, for the hunger
pains to subside; to transition body to the break of fast early in the morrow’s
gaze. If that coat can cover thick,
perhaps it’s power will persist, yet hours meandering in the wild, our hearts
sometimes phase into denial, to which the mind soon shall follow, believing we
are then what we are not, might never be, to which the bite will certainly
feast on me. Divinity, are you, am I, so
lost in spirit, to forget the form we met long ago, standing in ghost-real
form, resembling beloved relatives that lived their day? Has jaded temperament tempered me,
brandishing but only the harshness of unfocused light, blistering prisms with
their sounds of lye? The vote, we
forget, has been balloted many times before.
It is but our own psychosis that keeps it arm’s length from touch.
Is antipophora a sign of things to come, or a
symbol of all past consequences said and done?
Perhaps.
