Convictions lukewarm 

In the age of free-for-all;

Or is it freefall?

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The swan: no more song,

Marsyas: into silence flayed;

Hark the hand-wringing...

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The patrimony of a moment

In Time suspended:

To be caught unawares

In some ruthless hourglass, 

Scavenging for mercy

But only finding sand...

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Blood colours the fruits,

Thisbe weeps for Pyramus;

A mulberry dirge...

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With an eye to eternity

and an 'in memoriam' murmur

from the caverns of posterity,

it's all sotto voce prophecies

in some sub rosa haze,

too late to be wrangled 

out of conjecture

right at the juncture

of hope and fear, 

where sophistry comes cheap

and distant requiems plead:

why did you care

for every wrong thing?

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A silhouette staggers,

searches for clarity,

knows it can't be 

fully-fleshed yet

abhorring being 

a wraith, just 

asking to be seen,

craving that legitimacy

of witness; if Elysium

can't be reached, 

then, at least, ward

off the obsolescence...

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Farce interrupted

by battering ram.

Cutlass thrown

into erstwhile Shangri-la.

Palimpsest burdened

by repetition: eras

erased, yet more

of the same.

Recitals of remorse

caress the ears

of the wilderness

alone. 

Casuistry made king,

rather than curing

the paucity of wings...

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A songbird stutters

Unsure, fearful of a world

Deafened to its song

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Like a fatherless wind, 

A forlorn zephyr,

Graceless before 

The grains of sand,

Faithless when forced 

To take a stand;

A miser, counting favours

Instead of stars,

Wilting now with 

All that arrogant

Fragility of a daffodil, 

And all the while

Sisyphus winks, 

Ever so grateful 

For your fellowship...

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A chaos seraphic, 

with order translucent;

an anointing of wounds

awaiting in the wings, 

glistening with the courage

to salvage all merit

that remained from 

the truest of myths...

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Roots sinking, 

Conviction unblinking,

As cassocks demand 

The soul of the firebrand,

Just to master the survival

Of manicured lies 

And winsome façades,

Neglecting to reflect

That somewhere, some

Of the time, Prometheus

Doesn't genuflect, allows

The dream to effervesce, 

Willing to take

The punishment instead...

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Tidings of treachery

in a hummingbird's trill;

An exchange of aspect

between wolves and sheep;

A blameless moon usurped

to illumine vengeance

enacted by temporal 

fragments feigning a whole,

eschewing their divinity

for some sublunary throne...

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"Through millennia meander

as you will, with

a hymn, a maelstrom,

and a nemesis," said

the nightingale to

the king; "just don't

mind the augury, 

listen to me:

a dandelion whispers

its infinity to 

the blowing breeze, 

and a future's never

inked, but only

by starts timidly

backlit; Time will

impishly wink, as

Life and Death

dance in chiaroscuro,

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