Written by J.M. Chadwick
On a cerulean midnight, the swan song is sung:
Dearly Misjudged, she said
We gather here and there
Yesterday and tomorrow afternoon
To prepare for the death of a December
And the bereavement of every clock
Join me in a prayer
To send our departed discontentments
To the farthest corners of the sky
And let them haunt us
O holy ghost!
He interrupts squarely
The holy ghost!
What time is it in the core of the Earth?
What magma melted my heart?
What hour must I reach
To know the grace of equanimity?
Young Lover, her voice mollifying him
Where does your mind roam?
The water of the streams
And the fruits of the greenery
Must be enough for you today
My sincerest regrets
For I cannot give you answers
Only speckles of grief
And ideas of what to do with it
But who are you, messenger?
Their voice shrill
And what is your purpose here?
Who are you to diminish the minutes
We were not even finished with?
My intentions are golden, strident Juvenescent
To patch up your broken bridges
With sticks and stones
Tell me, could you do any better?
Could you view the universe
With lavender wheat eyes
And tell it: you have to keep moving on
The aureate dawn rose above the clouds, and the lake was empty.