Charon.

Fire wakes and heaves the poised master, laughing. Oh mist, you wreak eclipse if new weeks give dawn wounds. The dream, the scene: the boat on the chaste lake of tears bearing A delicate heart that drifts freely above breezy pitfalls. The sail’s end works threefold through a taut noose. If March knows this, her murders pile while April gasps there, Eviscerated. You’ll think white defiled, While in me plays language and God's sickly writhing core. Fair I seem in my pacing shame. The eye’s dry itch dies on my breast; Hands coiled with the end-day’s glades. Its gaze is towards Never, pleading its case. How fickle this world seems, and heavenly! My pores thick with spent frivolity, Trying angels’ patience. Indifferent tongues make the separation constricted, And my three eyes lie in waiting... Written March 29th, 2001 © on Apr 14 2002 05:04 PM PST   18 • 0 • 1