Eyes truncated to those of others,
rugged down to the gaze of four thousand reflections of light,
stare, sans interruption.
Feet trenched in sand, whose selfish ignorant hands
carve memories onto his own.
Pitiless? Blank? Or perhaps exhausted
of invisible generations,
limitations, unmoving constellations.
While dirt piles around granite eyelids
and the wind weeps long into the silence,
filth perforates the breathless stone
of a crown rough-chipped and a fading sentence.
Sandals, set a thousand leagues below the dunes.
Hands statued, Schrödinger trunk
where the royal concepts of height
of life, the death of legends
Lie ‘neath the grimes of yellowed time
perhaps a myth.
A broken nose, and scattered edicts
pillar and scar in a stretching darkness,
but when blanketed in night,
a thousand shafts of attentive light
And amongst epitaphs in choking stone
rests the worldly, weary throne:
The eyes of angels and rotting arrows
from where the unsung, battled bones
(Or were they well-sung? The bards held no fealty to the future.)
scatter the strata,
unseen, unvanquished, unknown.
Was it in love or was it the pain?
The well-stocked granaries or the stolen grain?
The gold-dipped streets or deepening moats?
Did the ankles throb of forgiveness, of absolution, or of arrogance?
Were the feet the statement of a ruler, or the swansong of a king?
A prudent artist would cast such clouds aside
Set poetry on the might, the eyes
Rhyme leaden stare and beard of noir,
Not I. The ‘bergs float within the leagues,
igniting rock and an unknown history.
Such atmospheres are a questioned haze,
a fading sentence.
And of all the words and fire, gold, desire,
it is the sand that solemnly stands,
firm, blurred against the winds
in a desert that could well have been the heart of the world.