We are like foams upon the sand, bereft
of ocean and intent, and what is left
is lost beyond the reach of time or hope,
and soon, we vanish: bubbles blown of soap.
We’re carried on the vagrant winds, careen
and rend ourselves among the flower greens –
we decorate the blossoms by our road
and then, we die upon the blossom’s goad.
Between the Wind and Flowers lies our bliss –
our Infamy was not so strong as this,
when flames were set among our hearts at play,
and coupling kept our frozen ghosts at bay.
Now, songs we knew are drifting from our grasp,
and memory bites as deeply as the asp,
and wine grows musty on our bitter tongues,
and aromatic incense burns our lungs.
The tasks in which we joined have reached an end,
and golden morning light has ceased to bend
its rays around the edges of our names,
and we are distant from rewards and fames,
but still, we’re bound to ceaseless striving night
that sees no dawn, knows only fear and fright,
and frees us not (nor ever will) from grief
to any form of ease, or to relief.
I am a foam – upon a desert tossed,
bereft of any sea, to oceans lost,
and twining in the mist about my neck
are glowing words, all tangled in my wreck,
and written there – in hand so like my hand:
there is no wonder in the drier land,
no lessons learned by contemplating time –
at furthest grasp, no truth is trapped in rhyme.
We’re fragile as a rainbow’s rippling arc,
and transitory, as are light and dark,
and stricken with the endless mortal grief
of bubbles, or of Autumn’s faded leaf…
Oh for fuck’s sake what the hell is this? Heroic couplets? Really? Who do we think we are, Dryden? Pope? For the luvva sweet bebbe Jeebus, what gets into me?
Three twelve line sections, three four line stanzas per section, in rhymed iambic pentameter – look out, people, I’m building a time machine to the 17th century – out of words…