The Devilish Qualm
And there, painted
and playing in sweetest frame
is the timeless province.
There, suspended
by the arches of axiom,
with sputtering brushes
of wielded coherent structure.
I drown upon spearing fear
in the devilish qualm,
splintered to scattered scree
upon the wuthering face
of this old, roaming sphere:
in continuous form
and bristling invariance.
Here is one soul
stripped of fire's bite.
I have my tools at hand,
extensions of my form;
yet the tendons are emblazoned,
threatening to break
upon the simplest gesture.
I dare to say
that I do not live:
I am suspended in a desert
where life once drifted.
I once was electing Truth
but am now spirited into hushing,
principled in my lightened travels.
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