I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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The Seminary Of The Sown Seed

The seminary of the sown seed,

Rounded and smoothed by the river of wind

And pacing with a soundless footfall

Upon the ground surrounding age,

Is womb and urn and temple between,

Till breath is bled and raked across its grave.


The seminary of the sown seed,

Sequestered from the spiralled arc of growth,

Ripe with innocence to trust in truth

At the pin-point of a hurricane’s eye:

That woo of youth that rises behind

The solace that sings from the centred void.


The seminary of the sown seed

Ages not in years, matures by ages,

Until the circling sea coughs up its ghosts

And sets them spinning on a sunless shore;

Their saviour sought has been burned in lament,

The print of his foot sunk deep in descent.


The seminary of the sown seed,

That lies not like the stark white flesh

And unblinking eye encompassed by sleep,

Waits at rest on the crest of the world’s curve;

There the slumbering season threatens a change,

And, returning its name, falls to decay.


The seminary of the sown seed

Steers the stars to their final alignment;

Whose sentence yet remains unpassed

Between the air-shaped night and day

And land-locked hours where soon the hand

That ticked my birth shall tock a timeless death.