Cradle the ashen hour;
cast aside the blatant lullabies,
so often sought without cause,
so often pardoned without grace.
Eternally demure, the passively barbed cuticles
of harpy lit notation sprawled, nay strewn,
across the ochre ash haven of rambunctious repute;
attentive to reason, receptive to none.
Propped upon the ever scorned prose
of the effervescent majority, the purveyor of all,
all that is not, what I had come to expect.
Implore the faltering notion, freshly drenched in wax laden woe,
callously sidling the respite, the reprise, the recital;
fickle curiosities and emancipated bliss,
fortunate asylum, ingrate phallic masochists;
idly ploughing afterthoughts;
reconvict the perennial cyst.
The salvation of the ingénue…
the tedium of honesty.
Beseech our confessional intonation;
hold the chrysanthemum aloft,
for it is not a
rather a life, rather a symbol,
never a death, never
Scour the periphery of the
solemnly lit, as it were,
guiding the hand of the ill-fated man,
whose heart least not his mind, shall return.
Unscathed through the fallacious repetition of logical reprieve,
free to fail, within the confines of our concern;
our concern for the particular.
Silence the cyclic grasp of heather feted vanity,
marred by the perpetual ecstasy of descriptive derision,
the personification of literate denial;
all that is not, what I had come to expect…