River

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Out the channels, blindly escaping
Have legions fresh to holy seek
Royal wounds piercing apart
That couldn’t once start,
A sky so endless in height
Punctured afar of might.
Once a man, twice forming
Chapels and sages to see
Mornings bloom, feeble chant
To holidays in a promising land.

Hours and hours of unheeded stray,
Wild berries to twigs always lay
Whence had the sun enough shaped
Prince and their craze ablaze
Moon a mine, separate perfume
Fruit of reds and seasons groom
To sprits then was a call,
That they had before truth enabled.
“How many men would it take to poet?”
Screeching words forever around
Stars and sunrays, all bothered
For once a man couldn’t believe
That life’s ceaseless poetry
All too certain than night
Of ocean’s depth, words to each
Then a firewood of seventy seas
Burn too bright, some die
Mine sit by for the sake of it.

A conformation disguised in flattery
Green arms of filthy admiration
One to hundredth to thousand,
All but gory as hell,
For others bound in a system chaos
Have pronounced enough
Flash! Flash! Flash!
Photograph…

In divine conspiracy then heavens speak:
Works of art, never strike
Smoke and ice, rich in fumes
Eyes that persistent tune
Rivers to purge
Rains to swell
Life until death
Clocks pilgrimage to dwell
And then you know the song
That had you in melody encased
Dance, the poet in mask a stretch
Soaked in clouds, off clear the edge.

***

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