a fist of moments, crimson tear?
A bead, a pinch of close content,
too bitter-bright, irreverent?
Just now the light is closing in;
the justice here is blister-thin,
as if the charged transparency
of day gave way to clemency.
How now might we depart from light
when dreams, emboldened by the gloom,
unfurl to free each thought kept low by sight
and hum and flitter distant as a loom
that shuttles slow beneath the fallen lids
the worries gently honed amid
a dense and frowning sea of broken hope?
Though now sharp tears, distraught to cope
with even sources of themselves
bedeck the heavy, hungry shelves
of night with sudden memories.
As though in throwing obsequies
to rolling cloud in frozen storm,
my empty eyes retain the form
of raging shroud. The sky is torn
as though my emptied mind were born
or carried slyly off to mourn
amid the jagged line of morning
where my reeling path is shorn
to increments of ragged learning.
For what tight burst of blood
does mind endear its levied mood?
In this ironic flesh, this mental cud
do we see nought but thought�s prelude?
poetry i. main