04-26-2016, 02:29 PM
Wicked is the Storm
I was leaves blown in circles
when I left your town to return to Autumn,
and now there is no one to warn
when the lightning strikes.
We will again walk these October streets,
past your tweezered lawns, and lives
hidden behind porch lights and dark windows.
You will hear the calliope and weep
for your herald writhes on my arm,
and Fury is satisfied. There is no salvation
from desire. Your libraries are dust,
and your books covered in dust, and none
of you still reads. You are all stones
dropped down a deep well making no sound.
I lay out this banquet, and you eat
until the food is tasteless, and I
am knocked aside in your mindless rush.
You crawl like spiders up my skin
in your banality. I feared
the virtuous, and finding none
thought I was clever, but there is nothing
to take when you are all teeth,
and continue to chew. The barren trees
are within you. Even now, the wind blows.
I was leaves blown in circles
when I left your town to return to Autumn,
and now there is no one to warn
when the lightning strikes.
We will again walk these October streets,
past your tweezered lawns, and lives
hidden behind porch lights and dark windows.
You will hear the calliope and weep
for your herald writhes on my arm,
and Fury is satisfied. There is no salvation
from desire. Your libraries are dust,
and your books covered in dust, and none
of you still reads. You are all stones
dropped down a deep well making no sound.
I lay out this banquet, and you eat
until the food is tasteless, and I
am knocked aside in your mindless rush.
You crawl like spiders up my skin
in your banality. I feared
the virtuous, and finding none
thought I was clever, but there is nothing
to take when you are all teeth,
and continue to chew. The barren trees
are within you. Even now, the wind blows.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson