28 November 2009

Presently the eyes are open
And seated upon a throne
encased in the thickening webs
of spiders drooping upon the pillows
Beside them, calm Impassive

There at once to war
Watching the Hun march off, twice
And there at once to the future
A desolate place this is
Only footprints trampled in the sand
Around a strange countenance
Frozen by the wind

No time passes
All has come to pass
Is it Troy they see
or just the meandering paths
stole through without companions suddenly appeared
What is it that wisdom provides
That it pays so with its price

Confined in these orbs
Unforgotten, vigilant before
Now asleep and yawning open the gate
Content to fiddle as it burns
Now awake.
Not to the Inferno.
Not to Paradiso.
But eternal guides sought in ancient time
Or at least touched by within the month

What makes it so
That a ghost may pass
A web may weave
Imprison into time
And no difference may be felt
Insensible it seems
Between which night would we choose
If forgotten be our fears
And to charge right in and blundered
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