When the storms rage
insanity desperately seeks
all the words that can be found
to tell of what is lost;
not for the coherent view of the eye
but for the dissonant voices whispering...
Poets and despots are manifests of peril
Conflicted by silence and song.
The eye has focus of inversion
Taking mountains and sky
To a fine point’s conversion
And all the ships that fly
Upended to float space
To cosmic oceans of Andoria
Poured into quantum vase
Where dementia fringes euphoria.
An apple fallen from its place;
the crimson sky tells of tomorrow;
a cardinal rule waiting its perch;
a rose wilted by fall’s touch
and claret wine for a full life.
How does the sanguine nature of time
encompass an arc’s concave and convex
extensions to a singular end?
