The light of
the hour complete with shame
Thinks of
what come first and enjoins the earth
Full shaken
and molded from the touch first
Fires at its
absent remainder in the shade
It is not a
time for playing with rhyme
Searching to
recommend itself again
Seeing no
difference made of shadow’s pain
The same
careful tune that it came in alive
Had ventured
and vanished to reprise the day
Where has
its parting begun but by day
Oh, how its
essence pervades and aligns
The fullness
of the afternoon gazed
Has not been
forgotten nor emanates
As plusses
and minuses alert
Nor as the
aegis of the self-same fire
But as
wildly as feverishly
Where evil
awaits bedlam medicine runs
Why wouldn’t
science be anxious to be so
No one can
appreciate beneficence
Their nature
is opposite inference
The sane and
the departed can’t hear it
They must
form in harmony or veer
That little
habit of convenience steers
A way that
from nowhere appears a verse
The same
that a thought made of glory or mirth
War to the
wages of everyday shrines
Art is a
vehicle and its driver
Take just
one of these as a sample
Words are
free until they’re captured by poems.
They may be
powerfully old and ashamed
Written by
someone for anyone’s name.
A vice grip
in the memory of stone.
Far greater
is its worth than its damage.
A sonnet in
the afternoon, plumage.
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