Poetry

Nearly two-thousand years have hollowed out a corridor from bones and ash
Heaped with discarded promises remembered too late, cemented in corruption:
When an Ides arrives under a newer ownership, fawning the sweeping change,
Propelled by the same pretense that calls a nation to fill wombs and graves with
Unsuspecting tourists seduced by a psychopomp's daedal and pretty ribbons all
Stacked in opposition to each other, clinging to a bloody chest filled with anguish,
It is then that we plead for the time when it took little more than revealing to a lover
What is behind the secreted door amidst countless regiments of doors, alone opening
To a courtyard where words ring empty in proximity to sibylline shrouds flagging
The valiant heart for the humble pilgrim who believes there exists another Holy
Dwelling somewhere along the jungly path, ensconced beyond memory's perimeter
In an unwitnessed instant of terrible creation spun from an ageless whisper echoed
By irenic fools seeking to bottle a leaf's flicker with ink or electrons, holding fast
Against the tide of dying embers singing triumph absent of war, needless of peace.