A Seer's Omen

Like the lost sounds of evening bells The voices of children pealing The last lie of innocence in papyrus away; Not the baubled brook in joy; The rinsing screams soliciting crude customs back, Spreading phonetic fingers of laughter for aid; Our tone dead heart hears nothing But self-cloying honey, leached and leaking From comb-cells flaccid to the bone. These times have lost more than silver steeples or steel Bright hope aspiring to the sun; We poor Daedalus by sight driven lust Watch in writhing disgust autumn unwinging us Shearing golden trees of leaves against the brawny breeze; What architect built the broken oak? Our Icarus from heaven is shaken. Trust Falling - all proven traditions past! The lives of children in an hour glass Tell, myths were better than this Midas dream