
A Trial of Triumph
Never have I wanted to live forever
for the sounds too have gotten to trickle me
down on my nerves, into ashes of dimension.
In a cold, hard frost I deprive
with a knot in my heart I took charge,
a tarot — yet a golden mischief
blunt, grotesque, yet repellent,
unwinding lashes grasping my anchor,
hence the stones beneath were to mock
as if decent redheads queue along coffee shops.
I called out the distance
I called out full of flames
dropping unbreakable bones
like a pivot of Artemis.
Although I cried and I cried
I cried until the Heaven soars
glimmering blaze of sunshine pouring dust,
G-d knows the act of utter perusal;
empty glasses though they’ve ripen,
I may not know; but
to plead I beseech from such war.
From a swift motion, to a slow horizon
up in the midair Orion
although another one would call:
“What have I done so wrong?”
Breaking spells into the meadow
covered in warm blood behind red curtains,
vessels barrack ungrudging my weak,
in a blink, vast of frozen air;
A trial of triumph, never to be seen,
devoted to pure strings attached
holding grudges, indeed mistaken
on the grounds the walls have thundered
beaten and burden, full of admiration
countered and occupied, obscure;
and to the rulers of the time at all.
