Mute Poem by Michael Ó Domhnaill

For no longer that a scant beat
my depth lived love died
In a twilit gesture, predestined heat
shook her hair loose. My bloody soul lies…

Twisting, slicing itself to old age
in love's golden bowl-
Taught in cloistered entropy, freed by desire's wage.
Molded into hideous profane thrusts: Daggers pierce me cold.

Slicing song, intrinsically morley morbid and best
suited to childhood proddings in dusty pens of frolic.
Burrow, Burrow to heart's sinew oh sick wretch pest.
Boil in bubbling white paint, the wooden floor, no tiny tot ticks…

Tolling time to a near gone century, barely there
and pulled out from under you.
It's an iron cloud.
Iron of no more...Complying touch:

Interpreted in this way:
Crowds of crying mutes martyr themselves in velvet vouch pouches

With you and I the vocal moaning witnesses-
in cold mind mourning.
Mutilated martyr mutes in oh so ritualistic frenzy.
Then silence,
As justice's sandy wind
expands a soundless wave
and beginnings are ritually reachable.

Oh surprise...She has quenched my ludicrous vision.
I have no regrets.
I am unhindered.