Does your rib not bleed
upon the evil thought and deed
which perforates the tender skin
like a dagger of steel,
and sows its poison seed?
Does the willful sap
in ancient memory and current plea
frolic still in the garden of sleep
with blindfolds of faux amaranthe?
In meadows of lemongrass and chamomile,
in the imperious dome of make-belief
does the pendulum swing
at the mercy of the subtle winds.
And it is this, the giant of multifarious grieving,
which by percipient means stabs himself
and wonders why his pain is ceaseless,
and which by dulled eyes and hope
embraces the tango of the infinitely lost
to drown the torch which brings about
the reconciliation of all the ailments superimposed.
