Solemnness at the edge of desert,
A deserted pastel in a bankrupt world;
The dulled image of a lamp tilted,
tilted helter-skelter as in a tilted mirror.
The Cold Before The Forest Of Usher
Solemnness at the edge of desert,
A deserted pastel in a bankrupt world;
The dulled image of a lamp tilted,
tilted helter-skelter as in a tilted mirror.
It was a semblance he sought
through the haze of doubt and rift,
or a packaged stone, smooth without chill.
This illness, this petty enclosure;
Taking time for a withering bloom,
And the heart, ah the heart
all weak with weathered rot. . . .
Not without conscience do I hold you close,
Pressure to each indelible stroke,
Lip to lip and a slow caress . . .
Wait, do not say, " for only good reason"
When reason wears thin and the world
Rears on robot stilts; devils dive
Into the ashes of nuclear acrobatics.
Rather, bend your sense to touch.
I cannot reach the past images;
The windblown leaves are too soggy.
Mist dips into musty portals and
Phones die in the silence. . . .
Page 2 (Black Book: Light Heart)
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