Tortuous Clockwork – 02/06/2021

Image by Prettysleepy from Pixabay

Nightfall bells

in silken sinuous trail

coil ’round the zephyr,

which by queer,

fragmental scream

roams as nothing

in ardent thought to be.

The chiming whispers

seething from the subtlety

announce the arrival

of clanging chains most antique.

And in this garden

of black metallic bliss,

denied their existence is.

In this garden

of black metallic will,

wild wicked

does the gaping jaw

commences the rite of blighting

with memories of instinctive dances

by poison fire and blue lotus medicine.

Coalition of Yourself

Image by pieonane from Pixabay

Every spring is a delirious dream,

a fever of singing birds beaking

at the ribcage of the shadow of death.

Every spring, the tales of old fall asleep

to the chiming of wishes

which nature is to defy

the will to apotheosis.

But every spring takes the edge

off the wine of misery.

At one point, no reflex will escape

the awareness and dance of the puppeteer –

being there but forethought

and synergy with the lower machinery.

Thus, every spring is but a glass of alchemy.

Be drunk! Be mad! – Never still.

For the road is long in the quest for eternity.