Classic Poem

There is a being grants promise of some folds
that filter large against a head of brokered night
like flare amounting to a pace, when all congealed have

wasted on, or wreck these elementary stone
with pipe which can't contain, reeling
false with constant slivers who

battled slope have clustered to a point
no stand will more invade
until the testimony grinds

like as to what were then to
mold. Anger runs a sum its
touched to punt upon, loose

timber spiked for lust of trees, vein
dream of uncorrupted light. It's not
for revery nor mystic bed that lies

in tutored heart, leavened with the bitter
spite expelled to vapor snare. Goading
under trample, slump, leave shore obey

no lore, which risen froze a crumb to fill
an even clump. No prompting cuts the
salient sash so well as giving silence

turns to ash. Would that permission wept
or circumstance refrained—from all or
near so much as blinds away.











Used by permission of the author.