Mirror broken glass mishmash
the architecture of divine providence
the provinces burn
with the anger of cathedrals
a great schism upsets the prison ideology
and idle hands
in the hands of the mercenary
his feet blackened
by the rubble he’s stepped through and steeped
strips of rubbish rub glands
across horrid hearts
but where language fails
the world fails
fleet fragments of forward progress
the agenda is brackish
dripping from the mouths of rivers
which are only rivers
while the oceans are forgiveness
Something tells me
I’m supposed to be shocked:
taking stock of what I’ve given up,
in how I’ve given in,
how I’ve driven myself off
the dusty road into an even dustier ravine.
Something tells me it’s obscene,
but this seems an understatement.
I’ve an engagement
with the limpid passions
passing like scribbles overhead,
those dribbles of colored clouds
that blend in-and-out of one another.
Another spectacle smothered
by the open palm
What just came blundering
through the door
was a fiery uncertainty.
May as well take
the remainder of the habitat.
Out of habit, or out of general ennui,
we let the flames keep at it.
It’s just our way
of handling situations.
I’ve these apprehensions,
of a tension toiling
underneath my skin.
But they come and go
The feeling is fractioned.
No one ever gains traction
in this weather. Strange
rumblings from the nether
regions and an ever deepening sky.
They called us the creeps of conscience,
but never asked for our names,
never endeavored to understand our aims.
The air is stacked with moot points
and refuted claims.
There’s the fountainhead, teeming
with dead ecstasies, its surface murky.
So this is what we’ve been