We'Ve Been Left For Dead Poem by James Browning Kepple

Cursed few amongst us strewn
to the tides of the pacific highway,
to the now cleansed sandpipers tomb,
up the ancient eastern graven curves,
through the whistling pines and wheat
do we continue our small odes and elegy,
a swindled pile of oak smolder
through the surly cold of night,

a tempest restless yearning for warmth,
a closeness of ones body to creation,
do we wail out for holy champion
to guide us back to our humanity,
guide us back to the power in soul,
the nature of our lost phantasm,
branded sorcerers and storytellers
for this future is yet foretold

a factitious diary

left unsweltered there on the pier
do we stumble over tetanus cruciform,
shake off the droplets
and surmise it all with the sun sheltered
beneath your iris
hammered improperly

do not stumble
do not let your fear paralyze you here
in this vast snowy wool,
do not let the ink dry

to have been summoned by the gusts salty
down the bending curvature of riverbed
do we escape to the sea
do we escape to the sea

whift up the sulfur, burn this overture
our washed away sense of indifference
to rejoin in the manner spoken,
a journal of our unheard mannerisms,
left revelations
and crawl within each other to die