WE MUST DETERMINE
THE WINNER OF THIS
CONFLICT OF TIME
THE WINNER OF THIS
CONFLICT OF TIME
(modern poetry)
Though there are none, there we make claim -
no matter and nonetheless. The small heart in the
palm of a hand - some tattooed distaff wandering
- lets us know the trebled meaning. Continents of
blood and conflict make the season. A yellow box
of corn meal still sits on the baker's table.
-
The abbot is singing his song : a slim sponge of
Gregorian chant in his robes and aces and beads.
He's been to Vegas like he's been to Rome; in his
dreams, and his holy dreams alone. This secular world
is a new spear to his heart - the one in his chest here
takes precedence. When his mother died, she was buried.
-
I have no verve for this whirling world - my amalgamation
polka has left the dribbling universe alone. Where I stand
up, the ceiling already is in place. I am boxed, in a cavern;
I am caught in a maelstrom of a time of my own.
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