Flowers of Despair: A tribute of sorts

“Into a garden I have grown”

Filled with thorns I’ve viewed as thrones,

Upon lavender and lettuce I do sit,

In a palace of malcontent,

The hours wide

The passage went

Jonquil sent yet petals dried return

Shells of almonds seeping aloe’s ooze

The note attached,

Where x is all you were willing to supply

As you thrust love’s dagger through my side

Fingers scurry for anything else

Just something to continue the delusion alive

‘twas when the Asphodel caught my eye,

         To which I couldn’t cry, only mutter, “soon dear friend I shall accept that penance clean”

Love lies bleeding. everywhere

To which I stand a-daze for each the hour seized.

Agape—

 I stand in stare

The Cypress of the delphinium, prophesized

 That death, like the creeping willow—

In acceptance of Viscarias whispered dance,

 Transcends—

 Both space

And time

The witch’s spell of hazel has since gone dry

Another Working Title

I may not have the answers

To many of life’s questions

Yet I do have the knowledge

That experience had suggested

I never cared much for

All those things I didn’t need

What I had was how things were

And how things are explained to be

I may not have the directions

To many of life’s immeasurable deceptions

Yet I do know,

That one-foot comes before the other

And regardless of which heel steps first

I always end where I’m meant to be

And where I’m meant to be,

Has always been with you next to me

Humidity Reconfigured

The stench consumed the oxygen

Deprived—stagnating frigid scent

The itch declared aversions to,

Demography and science-laden

Veins of change/chance

Hovering

In hovels high

Above domiciliary

And streetcars henchmen

Screeching foul free

Positioning

Strongholds of air decayed

Frantic, frenetic, caustic solutions to,

Boundaries broken, yet reenlisting

All the angry arches, all the fractured bridges

Broken in humid reconfiguration.

The Possible Implications of Perhaps

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.

Requiem of a Shape-Shifter

Apocrypha, in an age of identity

Shifts the coward into a state of dependency,

Thus becoming a disciple of anonymuncule’s filth and veil.

For the nameless little men

Anamnesis beckons regurgitated fear,

For he may see the faces surrounding him,

Thus remembering his own infrahistoria

Visions of pine

Scintillate his perversions,

As anabasis approaches nigh

His preponderance of though

Travel murky skies,

Seeking any causality where,

His stone shall be composed,

By anything other than

Amphiboly