I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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Dull the cry of the dying night,

Whose enemies by Dawn’s light plot

The mourning after the nightmare before.

Death is preached a means to birth,

Or at least an end to this,

This grieving sport that grows upon,

(And dwarfs, indeed, the age it seeds),

Life’s water-rich and thornless stem.


No shade of origin can we claim

Nor would if we but had the means;

My melting kingdom could not contain

Each vanishing theft and soul trespass.

Loose I my voice to call upon

All men, to whom I turn, with such

Cacophonous sighs and crookéd smiles.

Ever from the lightning glance I cast

Retreat you in your wanton weave,

Footsteps fleeing to veils of prayer.


Interred within the mausoleum

Of their intimacy, the lovers who

Count you among their number learn

That they may lose anew.

Did ever such a fate befall,

And in such immeasurable memory,

Any but the cruellest of our kind?

Should you not, you say, be sailed across

The scything sea, storm-blind and burned

For nothing more than craving

The cauldron of another’s kiss.


Glad the willing shall this time be,

For their endeavour serves to stand

An example of the ingenuity

Possessed we then, a dream ago;

Lies now abed a graveward sea

Unbuttoned from the tightened sky,

Unmanned but for the misers counting

The sand upon contracted shores;

Cinders of the vibrating sun.