The blackbirds swooped in their customary jealous way, the Robin
Chirped before leaving for another year, and I patted
The well fed brown clay with my muddy boats.
I remember planting her in the spring hush just after the flakes stopped,
He sits on the edge of the world
Watching us come
Jotting, then scribbling, then painting, then down
To lie back in his hive and marvel at us
Nothing. Just a clear sky on a dulling day. A deserted street with waving flags on painted posts. The regimentation of complete uniformity. The lack of empathy in silent sorrow.
I march to where they are buried in a dark graveyard of black nodding heads, painted with wide staring eyes, and grimacing teeth. I have taken a backward step to move me forward on a sinking bog, squelching, climbing to who knows where.
Entombed, by a chronic Phidias,
Chained, by a weakening Kratos,
Plagued, by a ‘Pandorian' Evil,
Comforted, by a Reddening Hermit,
Butchered, in the modern Kiln of the obsequious,
Infected, by the septic words
Of a feral Baachus,
Laying, tongue tied by the Ghosts