Black Holes

There is an essence to anger
that bites the heads of snakes
rattles the chains of Asmodai,
in the vague light bad seeds wilt and die
he stands alone hands on hips,
a lost soldier in the deluge of his own storm
the sun explodes into fractured light

he chases nothing into black
his hacksaw blade, edged and dull,
screeches, bouncing off hard steel

drawing on a cloud of puked pollution
until at last a concubine delivers him
to a Castle made of sand.

We watched the days arc into tomorrows
in the split timber of an ageless wood
a simpleton walks without a compass
he circles 'round and 'round again
in his dizzy days he condemns
all of those that came and went
while he pretended he was king
of some self invented Charmin world
as all the peasants bent their hips
and offered him full moons.

The winding river rages towards the sea
there is no flood today, just the steady rhythm
of the water's flow, and the endless calling
of a pulsing sun, bleeding from the heavens
shedding light on truth as a parade of ants
slowly build their castles made of sand.

Ah, the poetry that picks itself a place
beyond the dimple of a daydream
far past the anvil of all angst
to travel on a higher plane

shall free us from still-born tides
of every knave that throws a dart
into the face of head winds
where boomerangs were born
to lead us as we journey
far past the bleeding fools
to a new home behind the sun

then, in our providence of passion
we shall declare ourselves set free
from all the foolish burdens
of confining mental poverty 



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