Deus Et Tribulatione

time slides ever to the right, neither scabrous skidding mark, nor faint leavings of wisdom’s feast, only gouged furrows, upturned days, to love only ideas of love, inane this hate of a cruel gentle kiss, blackened hollow, sunken chest, banal sacraments bless clamoring voices, blown down a narthex like noisy wraiths, screaming attention emotional ear stoppers, when I'm here- I'm there, and when I'm there- I'm here, a self wound-ed pocketwatch missing a chain, endlessly inward, the self-seeing eye, germinated in murky hothouses, stumbling over obligatory roots along blood red claybanks, wine and honey, summertime of days, flow past, rushing torrent of softer kisses unwetted, aloof, removed, astrally projected, the world perceived in gloomy mastication, a demented ascetic in a cold mountain niche, grown older in the dimlight, stranger to himself, nary the wiser, sunblinded, threadworn, stumbling towards an emptier ending of, impure unsaid poetry, coagulated prose, clotted in the footprint, trailing behind.