A withering wind
Dried up, shrivelled, exposed, weather-beaten,
Shrunk to the dimensions of a man
This wasting away of the body, began
On the hey-ho-day of a long anticipated holiday
That no quenching ever pleases
That is rubbed away, like stains that dry
In the sun. The evidence disappears.
The minutes, the hours, the years
Wither, languish, decay. Pine away
In this quagmire-swamp of
Spilt water, wine. I forget which itch
Of memory did the damage.
Yanked us into the future:
Yoked, ploughed, dragged, inchoate;
A process had begun.
A work of resistance, an inception into art,
That will tear apart memory and desire
Release all the heart-wrung soul that is left in me.
A lamenting for the passing of the light.
Such a long, slow, melancholy sight...
Welcome now obscurity, the shadow behind the sun
Winter tree stripped,
Trunk bent in the winds of time.
A modulation of a voice, a volte-face:
A variation in rhyme. A turning away.
Surely, no man
Has such bad intent as to awaken from sleep
Those legions of demons who laugh as we weep?