A eulogy for poetry: Rite or retirement? Conceived in air, Nourished in water, Born through flame, Infinity’s isolation, Incarnate sensory pathways, Remembering shards of divine splendor, The night train rolls echoing old incantory speech, There is no end there is simply life. The folly of testimony, The monument is thought made action, The doing of the thing itself is its own satisfaction, The true name is told in the catechism of scars, The price is radiant in the lack of outward reaction, The self serpentine cannot help but wonder as it ponders the formulae, The process is redaction. Ever the spiral, Toward and away from the center, The perfect math in the rune of bones, This yearning constant, In the breath and blood, This Asmodian wrath, With no thought toward reward or draw for recognition, The unsung yet anointed hangman goes about the appointed task. The ways are laid out for those who will, There are no witnesses to question, Many are the roads, Dual now are the tools, Departing now the phantom way, The freight is paid in shattered urn and melted flask. In retrospect it is easy to know what should be said, It is bitter and better still to know what questions should have been asked, Infernally blessed is promethean fire, Easily now in reach, At the non end what awaits true will or the true desire? The eclipse points the way, Only nothing is done in halves, The self remembers the carving, Life among the headstones making prayer, Memory is but the shadow that movement casts, A spiral in the music no longer any questions why is won at last. https://youtube/watch?v=S6uR1rZjKkM
Posted on: Tue, 21 Oct 2014 09:31:13 +0000
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