March 23rd.

Never before did my heart wane like this, Like a moon in December’s hold. Wanton its hanging, the veiling of crisis; A flaying that’s yet to unfold. It’s preying on those whom piety failed With a passion that’s piercingly carnal; Discharged from great erect ridges filled To their petrified peaks with the flowers vernal Where clouds of forget beget blackness eternal… Purging earth impure of vulgar bondage, These clouds, they cry tears of ablution. Your eyes though dry must suffer the damage And cry silence in muffled persecution For these rich tears hold the sacred solution That flame often kindles and winds sometimes whisper, Sending sordid souls to their dire dilution, And inside their dreaming often prospers Things for which only in darkness will they become crisper… Written March 24th, 2001 © on Apr 14 2002 04:05 PM PST   18 • 0 • 1