To melt this bond of years
I happen to
trace this angel’s lace through realms of the un-logic. Keys open the great
gaping mouth, a gate, the chamber to breathing heaven; seething inner-shores of
desirous moors: the palace is soft as flowers’ tears and morning rain.
You chain
your star, the sparks splatter and drip like shimmering gauze be-sparkled with
dew – a spider’s web castle? Perhaps a fortress, a room, a metaphysic
landscape of charred dreams of poets, of
saints, of child-sighted minds.
I wonder at
the face of thee, the form of solidified cloud,
I deem this
splendor a part of me; that unsullied portion immortal proud.
Can I chance
to break the bonds of man, the matter-fears brought to woesome tears of chain
with links, cold, glistening and twinkle like stars of ice.
My heart must
melt this bond of years.
A furnace I
must tend. Feed this land the fuel of the brave, space between tree and house
move only to the rhythm of Eternal Love.
This bird is
of light, its silver, cold (hot) piercing brain fist is sent through the
thickening waste.
Time is
chaste of anything lost and do we put the memory there?
Is time the
curse of the dead living or is it the cure?
