Toe The Line Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

Heavy ballast holds lechery at bay,
heartfelt piquancy fogs prurient thought,
a shrinking violet bulbs through its calyx,
to thrum a euphony of blanch veneration your way.

Fauna converges upon a braided river,
frets about its umbilical bed,
endangered sentinels squall at dusk,
to praise cosmic suzerainty.

Indian mounds anent quartzite petroglyphs,
hallmarks of indigenous lapidary value,
solar flares deeply embed,
quills that bleed honor to the bedrock.

Courage flows through the bivalves of snow covered graves,
dormant echelons await a diacritical revival,
a messiah howls without trepidation,
to march down a scarlet horizon.

Where does the soul go when winter brushes it aside?
Nobody knows.
Maybe the scarecrow knows.
Maybe a nightingale knows.
All I know is that I yearn to feel your whisper through it all.

And as I pain poignantly,
As a withered brick in the wall,
I toe the line to your heart daily,
Only to love you evermore.