Theirs was a
time of titans;
Of unrelenting
progress onward
From the face
of an arable age –
An acquiescence
which its subjects
Weep in post-epochic
codas
By the slanted
light that rings
The birthing
star they worship still.
A faithfuls’
cross the solitary sign
To occasion the
place of their demise,
Tainted and,
as yet remains,
Touched only
by whose tongues recall
Though eyes no
mark of witness bear;
Their given word,
a word unknown,
Graces still
the mouths of men
Whose single
measure of success depends
Upon which side
of hell they stand.
Where are they
now? the enterprising,
Who, through
their changes, dwelt
Enveloped in
the compassed awe
Of a populace
misunderstanding;
A people who,
in innocence, shared
The dream, like
many, in the greed of few.
Previous on those
winding paths
That verged the
verdant-splendoured spring
Of life’s
determined range and route
Opposed alone
a cloud-eyed sky,
Was found the
single circumstance
Wherein all beauty
lied.
Yet from the
corner of my antique eye,
Uncoiled, I spy
the hangman’s noose
Suffocate what
remains of truth
In its captious
wishing well of wounds,
Lighted by a
capsized sun.
