A modern voice
cannot compare the deeds
That lay unread,
drowned by compound degrees;
Exampled in archaism
that seeds
The time-lined
though less travelled circling seas.
For those whom
ever question this design,
And yet remain
to all entreaties blind,
Your divers dampened
words of soft decline
Spell no more
than a wooden and resigned
Acceptance of
a spot-lit instant’s breath
Inside the vacuumed
vogue so called success;
Recanted then
reposed beside the death
Of one more favoured
moment’s choked regress.
It is with confidences
such I can,
In conscience
fair, harvest the ancient land;
Abide not in
domains of common man;
On even terms, turn down your tendered hand.
