If for some reason,
breath abandones me
And pipes in pride to
muse an eldern glow
Then think I past the
odds of chastened glee
That breath is prime in
death as seconds grow.
When past the borders
stretched behind a gate
A saint be asking "how o
how o how"
I shall engage discourse
to mock this Fate
And curse "be made to
flee, I plead thee now".
When strong remains he,
"die", I say there hence
And watch the being
embrace a smokey form
I shall then sing a plea of
dusk-silence
While wings affright my
game in uniform.
Perhaps I must despoil a
room in Hell
Or wait upon the Lord to
death, counsel.
Categories:
eldern, dream
Form: Sonnet