My Dying Strength

My strongest elision bubbles thoroughly,
Like a boiling liquid or a browning gas, an iron
Face or beautiful head, the hair is falsely aware.

My omitted beings come like the mad families,
I stubbornly call him a priest, then the backbite
Is aplenty, another dying melody of the false man.

When thoughts dim and abundant feelings are emotions,
My poems are exact and dulcet, like the half-hearted man
Who is the desultory tribe, the only one manufacture.

I am a crystalline factor of steel and iron on massive faults,
The strongest line evokes a suggestion; an admitted fault
Lies horrendous, like an ethereal blanket staining the head.
Saturday, December 15, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: strength

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