I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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So Strikes The Clock On This The Drowsy Dawn

So strikes the clock on this the drowsy dawn,

Its sixth-houred face unable to recall

From what degree or tense I have been turned

By acid hours that burned my midnight toil,

And laid upon the wind a winding tune

That sings the sailor softly to the shore

And lullabyes the wise man to the womb.


While open-handed Eos on her throne

Awaits the world wide-eyed and rosy-tipped,

The gods convene to sanctify my birth.

Should I in eyes immortal likewise stand

To not a moment lose in idle play,

And backward from the end of time begin,

Then so I wish their thunderous applause.


But whosoever speculates a fall,

Let not this coward’s slight disguise my plan

Of remedy to rid the fledgling earth

Its designated fate; yet undefined

Since long ago descended it to chance,

Where devils on a summer’s dawn still dance -

Their desecration signalling demise.


Beside the smoking broken-backed remains,

The wall-scrawled words recount a final hiss,

A doomsday phrase poured from the prophet’s tongue,

Whose moral fibres fray by twisted truths;

Whose fingers track the orbits of the dead

Across the acred sky in laboured tread,

Then kneels beside to kiss their dusty graves,


Where here in absolution‘s coffin lay

Those bygones which I strive to imitate,

Though in this age of reason must remain.

Call I to witness this supreme ordeal

All men who seek the sun and only find

The joyless regions death alone still haunts;

There recognise his soul-exhausted slaves.


Mapped in the black beneath a sight-starved eye,

They holy sleep, those cobwebbed legends lost.

Which heroes walked fleet-foot the deep-dug ground

Are frozen in the folds from which they grew,

Though such equations count for nothing now;

And yet this side of neolithic spring,

I feel my breathless lungs swell with their ghosts.