- Vol. 09
- Chapter 11
THE FLAMES OF HIS VERSE
The flames are not in his eyes.
He awaits a hum of verse
that can know
that the drawl of his
low roars
are the calls for
his dead mother.
He entreats
in his entropied silence,
a plea for mercy
to not douse our rationales
with hunter's ego,
brittle and numb
to terrestrial life.
His beauty is a construct,
an eternal flame
but
from his golden rebirth
among dwindling numbers
he wants to be put outside
steel boxes,
confiscating the imagery
that only claims his prowls
and burning eyes' blinding
blaze.
Can we not see
he's an overgrown child.
THE FLAMES OF HIS VERSE
The flames of his verse
are in how he can
gulp the moon
and ripple the stars
by approaching the pond.
Mediate the demystified
utterances of the night
with just one appearance
and when his dreams for
an existence are far from glory
and for the dignity of survival
does his heart
suffice.
The flames of his verse
are in the way
he comes with his
auguries
and silent reveries,
dreaming of the pack
in which he grew
and from whence life
came to be.
The flames of his verse
are in the lost language
that he communes with.
The last warning
for us,
to throw our guns
in the river
and neither to revere
nor butcher him.
Or glorify his flame 'burning bright'