The anacrusis of the hollow bell
congeals the motes of what was said.
A syllogism, pale and drawn,
bleeds into the threadbare lawn.
The glottal plosive of a name
stains the tessellated frame.
We count the sutures of the rain,
a quiet arithmetic of pain.
No semaphore of light or sound
disturbs the grammar of the ground.
The hermeneutic of the dust
dissolves all meaning into rust.
A fulcrum fails, the balance shifts
to cantilevered psychic drifts.
The scansion of the restless street
betrays the tempo of defeat.
The parallax of yesterday
obscures the lumen of today.
A palimpsest of other lives
on this taut membrane, this wind, survives.
The eidolon of our design
inverts the symbol of the vine.
The chthonic tremor of the deep
disturbs the covenant of sleep.
The hypostasis of the gray
defines the aperture of day.
A plangent chord, an undertow,
determines where the hours go.
The liminal, a door ajar,
reveals the scar of a lost star.
The prosody of our last breath
is etched upon the bone of death.
We map the caesuras of the soul,
a cartography that makes us whole,
or else, a fracturing of sense,
a syntax of imminence
The fulcrum of the plangent hum,
a testament to what has passed.
The asymptote of being numb,
a silence that was built to last.
A chthonic tremor, deep and low,
disturbs the grammar of the street.
The eidolon of what we know,
a quiet, visceral defeat.
The hermeneutic of the dust
dissolves all meaning into rust.
A parallax of simple trust,
a truth forever overwrought.
The scansion of the restless breath,
a quiet, measured, inner death.
A fragile, temporary crest,
an echo, waiting to be blessed.
The hypostasis of the gray,
defines the aperture of day.
A plangent chord, an undertow,
determines where the hours go.
The liminal, a door ajar,
reveals the scar of a lost star.
The prosody of our last breath,
is etched upon the bone of death.
We map the caesuras of the soul,
a cartography that makes us whole,
or else, a fracturing of sense,
a syntax of imminence.
A semaphore of light and sound,
reforms the grammar of the ground.
The glottal plosive, still unbound,
a sacred, ceremonial wound.
The motes of what was said before,
coalesce on the silent shore.
A glottal plosive's rawest roar,
leaves nothing left to ask for more.
The hollow bell, now fully whole,
congeals the solace of the soul.
The syllogism's endless toll,
becomes a meaning, in control.
The restless street, no longer prone
to what the waking hours have known.
A fragile, broken, hollow bone,
that stands on truth, but stands alone.
The psychopomp of our design,
divides the bitter from the wine.
A tessellated, endless line,
inverts the symbol of the vine.
The asymptote of bitter loss,
becomes a complicated cross.
The hermeneutic, light and moss,
becomes a silent, final gloss.
The chthonic tremor, loud and clear,
removes all vestiges of fear.
A simple, uncomplicated tear,
for a quiet and unburdened year.
The parallax of yesterday,
has nothing left to fear or say.
The eidolon of what we pray,
becomes the lumen of today.
The scansion of the restless street,
inverts the tempo of defeat.
A taste of triumph, bitter, sweet,
a ritual, no longer neat.
The endless thread of days gone by,
reflects the hollow, silent sky.
The tapestry of what we try,
a simple, complicated lie.
The asymptote of being numb,
becomes a vibrant, simple hum.
The silence, overcome, undone,
the sacred, ceremonial sun.
The glottal plosive of a name,
removes the traces of all shame.
The tessellated, burning frame,
a perfect, unrepentant flame.
The hollow bell, a sacred urn,
a lesson that we've had to learn.
A final, complicated turn,
a memory that will burn.
The plangent chord, no longer low,
determines where the hours go.
The undertow, a simple flow,
a sacred, complicated glow.
The prosody of every breath,
a quiet, measured, inner death.
The cartography of the soul's heft,
a sacred, ceremonious theft.
A semaphore of silent sound,
reforms the grammar of the ground.
The glottal plosive, still unbound,
a quiet, measured, whispered wound.
The motes of what we left behind,
becomes a different, quiet mind.
A syllogism, now defined,
a simple truth, forever kind.
The fulcrum of the hollow bell,
escapes the confines of its shell.
A final, complicated yell,
escapes the story we can't tell.
The eidolon of our design,
inverts the symbol of the vine.
The tessellated, perfect sign,
a perfect, complicated line.
The palimpsest of what we say,
removes the traces of all gray.
The hermeneutic of the day,
removes all meaning, comes what may.
The parallax of simple trust,
becomes a fragile, final rust.
The quiet, ceremonial gust,
a final, complicated bust.
The scansion of the restless breath,
escapes the shadow of its death.
A final, quiet, whispered theft,
the memory of what is left.
The anacrusis of a name,
a fragile, unrepentant flame.
A final, complicated game,
a quiet, complicated shame.
The liminal, a broken door,
reveals the scar of what's in store.
The prosody of what we bore,
a quiet, ceremonial chore.
We map the caesuras of the soul,
a fragment of a perfect whole.
The syntax, a complete control,
a final, ceremonial stroll.
A semaphore of what we knew,
a perfect, complicated hue.
The glottal plosive, always true,
a sacred, ceremonious dew.
The motes of what was lost before,
returns to knock upon the door.
The syllogism, a loud roar,
a final, ceremonial war.
The hollow bell, a sacred sound,
removes the grammar of the ground.
The simple truth, no longer bound,
a quiet, ceremonial wound.
The restless street, no longer prone,
to what the waking hours have known.
The fragile, broken, quiet moan,
a fragile, ceremonial stone.
The psychopomp of our last breath,
a quiet, ceremonial death.
The tessellated, simple theft,
the memory of what is left.
The asymptote of being numb,
becomes a quiet, simple hum.
The silence, overcome, undone,
the memory of a burning sun.
The glottal plosive of a name,
removes the traces of all shame.
The tessellated, burning flame,
a final, ceremonial game.
The plangent chord, no longer low,
escapes the undertow of slow.
The lumen, a complete control,
a sacred, ceremonial soul.
The liminal, a perfect door,
reveals the truth of what's in store.
The prosody of what we bore,
a quiet, ceremonial core.
We map the caesuras of the soul,
a story that is truly whole.
The syntax, a complete control,
a fragile, quiet, final stroll.
A semaphore of what we knew,
a perfect, complicated hue.
The glottal plosive, still anew,
a sacred, ceremonious dew.
The motes of what we left behind,
becomes a different, quiet mind.
A syllogism, now defined,
a simple truth, forever kind.
The palimpsest of days gone by,
inverts the symbol of the vine.
We count the sutures of the sky,
a fractured, broken, deep design.
The anacrusis of a name,
a syllogism without flame.
The tessellated window frame,
refracts the shame of being tame.
The liminal, no longer small,
absorbs the brokenness of all.
The sound of silence, a soft call,
a gentle, ceremonial fall.
The chthonic tremor, still and deep,
disturbs the covenant of sleep.
A quiet promise we can keep,
a fragile, ceremonial sweep.
The hypostasis of the gray,
reflects the lumen of the day.
The tessellated, sunlit sway,
a perfect, complicated play.
The hollow bell, a simple urn,
a lesson that we can't unlearn.
A simple, quiet, bitter turn,
a memory that can't burn.
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