DELIVERANCE
Away in the tides of distance, the Sun
afflicts the moon. Its orb’d sphere aroused in darkness
creates and catalogues the afflicted. Lights the nebulae
deep down in
who wrought iron from gold of nebulous morality, of alchemies betrayed.
Where, pray tell, are the Keepers of the World?
Inside her closet
(A constabulary of perfection)
Time marches on, but atoms stumble.
Behind the disorder of the order lies the ordered disorder
of her apothecary mind.
His steeled gaze shears light’s cross.
In blindness he cries, “Why have I been forsaken?[1]
Why, transfixed by my Rubicon, was I turned away?
Soft-hearted am I, but dare you try me upon my own mercy?
Swords: bring your justice down upon my gilded pate.”
A diplomat in the arbitration of fate said,
“When the will is trammeled,
will the worst fill with passionate
intensity?”[2]
He drowns quantum convictions in the seabed’s poisoned mollusks, sprouting
horns which impale catholic feasts. And so he laughs
and turns away.
Why do some choose to unchoose the blinders on their gazes
fixed upon sights self-seen, the sentinels
in their pews each week?
Perhaps they are the seekers who seek Piscean hooks to draw
blood from the
When there is an eclipse in the world,
When the world is itself eclipsed,
When the hidden reigns over the closeted,
When each speaks to others but not to himself,
When the narcissist and the schizophrene war,
Then the tide rushes in and drowns them all.
Copyright ©2001-2005 Steven Mason