An Evening's Murmur Poem by Evgeniy Filimonov

If I were to throw my words
to the wind.
Would they flutter in eloquence?
Convulse in dubious vulgarity?
Rather, held by their substance,
a domain of inertia.
No cry to be echoed.
Only gazed upon by their ephemeral heir.
Upon a fixated dwelling.
Yonder lies deceit and a lesson.
Time the vessel of passing.
As if spoken from loins,
a birth deserved nary
So I must mangle
the corpse in my maw.
Disfigured in ivory.
Purported disdain truly seen.
Enacting wretched aberrations.
Masquerades of normalcy.
Instead I lay my hand upon flesh,
no squall but a rebellion all the same.
Compelled to pace on alabaster fields,
to contest that cruel wind.
What must be said and cannot.
Upon hide is now written.
Grand tales of harrowing devotion,
lapsed into dormancy.