This path that we walk upon is the collection of points that the rain has drawn.
The rhythm section of the storm.
By the
moonlight to the gateposts of the forest,
in the snow light, we are bound for the portal of the pines.
Grey as famine, on this path
against our will by our main sails we're bound to the tempest until the sea is still.
Which compulsion with this miniature death
tributize?
From behind the walls of my broken coughing tent, a formal vision,
but I allude to my helpless passion for the
obtuse
When will this night end?
When the lightening finally tears through the mast of our sinking ship.
All the hopes of the
slaves are betrayed by the grates.
On this coffin of a vessel every note's another breaking wave.
Revel in this vision, a formal
visitation, on the night with the light from above.
Famished dogs follow slowly as my own paws drag me to a dock,
to the last plank
where I struggle to deny myself the path that every Pisces craves,
just above the water in the middle of that man-made lake.
On that
pier I turn my eyes from the water like a mirror of myself in the moonlight,
and I cough for every crater that I could see,
on the
surface of that coffin we've come to call the moon.
Now I wonder if all those judgments that you made were true.
And the trapdoor of
the solstice is thrown wide, wide open.
Let them all sink, let them all sink through.
The talking, the spinning of a web- its all
just formal ritual.
The burning.
The burning question "what do you deserve?"
The gazing at a candle to find calm, but we all know
its at the center of the storm.
Oh moon, though pluckest me out, oh moon-
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall and walked among
the lowest of the dead
(to Carthage then I came).
Only the most sacred crater will suit my burial,
only the most sacred choir
performs this ritual dirge.
Perfectly imperfect, like a storm.
By our mane dragged and bound to our grave by our mane,
to the
grave dragged and bound to the tomb by the scavenger's tooth.