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Sackcloth and Ashes

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  • Sackcloth and Ashes

    Golden halls and gilded egos glint

    Within the birdcage: an elliptical dome

    Of French antiquarian breath, all green rust and

    Limp metal flowers. The rain falls gently

    Outside the window upon the old courtyard.

    An antediluvian mauve-nostalgia filter slides over my eyes,

    Bringing back memories of rain on the street at night

    With jazz playing soft and hard at the same time.

    A retrogressive reminiscence.

    The floor of the birdcage boasts

    A layer of ash and feather-bits.

    Then there is something else, transient,

    The illusory whim of

    A limbless God. Now that’s just petty.

    But eons of true-violent death and routine injections of failed hope,

    Added to a mixture of dusk-weariness, moonlit heartache, and

    A poor man’s wisdom, well… the final composition weighs heavy on the chest;

    It overwhelms the benzodiazepine lungs, just as a cross-eyed high

    Of gyroscopic vice.

    In times such as this fugue afflatus,

    The wrinkled chasms bite deep into the skin… as did I

    When I was young and saw my brother daily.

    Then off into the Aegean, Aeolian Harp in tow along with a dead tongue;

    The kids don’t even care anymore.

    But off, to where I own my own balance,

    And no one sets it aflame. Too many times.

    The rain is picking up, the diagonal wall

    Of rustic blue farmhouse paint, circa 1931,

    Slices the cobblestone earth of the courtyard and

    Nudges the birdcage onto its side. A thin cage-bar snaps

    And sings a tune for dying lovers.

    The wet air carries a smell

    Of faraway ocean longing, beside brown-green cliffs,

    Of the fog coming slow over a hidden lake while I absently fail

    To catch any trout.

    My father sits with me. I don’t need another.

  • #2
    ~Such imagery.

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