10/24 Hours

So speaking, History is personally designed.  Words
that signify grotesqueries of blood & mind
will soon be judged by centuries & school of men
who chose the fatal flight of fireflies, immortal lance…

They who blaze the flaring path shall find the lack
in blank enigma of signs, the dross & the styx
that fear has so spat…Still, eremites might find a grain
of joke to throw at crows O rise of cold cold crowd…

The force that moves the fingers move the mind to wail
Gates of heavens are Ho-ho! gates of insignificance!
& wedged between the circles I, who, in vanity, visit the dance

& must therefore dance the wicked dance of angels on the lam,
this loss of tongue… But flogging dreams that wouldn’t stop
will not solve the riddle Garcellano has clearly planned.

This entry was posted in Imaginary Russian Roulette and Other Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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