Hangs The Man (A Sonnet) Poem by Riano Harp

Beyond the cusp of man's eternal bough,
On that curving lens where all women sow,
Hangs the Man, imbued with vines, with our brow
And dripping yolk, frowning before the glow
Of each Sun and Moon; His humour is still,
The Charity and Vanity force pulls
All gas and teeth to his vast divine thrill;
The globes inherent before Mother culls,
Arteries and branches sling from his neck
And the blind crowd, roaring from their crow's nest
Cough up blood on the Man's black furnished deck;
Crows tired with year, make foliage and rest…

A makeshift cavern splits the horizon
And that senseless mind, hanging, seethes as one.