04-20-2017, 09:43 PM
How fateful comes the end of days; the dust and ash of years
in thinnest layer.... a mica glint, a chalked blurred line upon dark moss.
Here dropped the wind, the very air he used to have and hold until
some prodding, pointed purpose drove it up and out of him...
cream-curdled words, how erudite his prose...to burst upon us all.
There is a silence on this hill, as deep and high as some inverted lake
wherein we weep into our piled up tears, unseen through subterfuge
of watered eyes; we feel no runs upon pale cheeks, so drenched are we.
Up swirls one stirring current in the aether that was still, an image
smoked from long-cold flames, alive again against brass-blasted sky.
It is not him. Some other spirit none of us yet know has claimed him now.
tectak
2017
in thinnest layer.... a mica glint, a chalked blurred line upon dark moss.
Here dropped the wind, the very air he used to have and hold until
some prodding, pointed purpose drove it up and out of him...
cream-curdled words, how erudite his prose...to burst upon us all.
There is a silence on this hill, as deep and high as some inverted lake
wherein we weep into our piled up tears, unseen through subterfuge
of watered eyes; we feel no runs upon pale cheeks, so drenched are we.
Up swirls one stirring current in the aether that was still, an image
smoked from long-cold flames, alive again against brass-blasted sky.
It is not him. Some other spirit none of us yet know has claimed him now.
tectak
2017