Friday, March 4, 2011

The Echo

Heeding your call I try to devise
A delicious repast in a shady vale
Enduring, refractive and sung to a lyre.
Who would you be then? My images lost,
I’d call you by name, and then take your hand
Along by the ocean, down a long winding path;
Indeed like good luck, wrapped up in a caul
Of a newborn babe full of howls and yells
Left on the doorstep, the throne in crisis,
Exhumed from the oyster,  a pearl of chance.
My pencil point pen would sooth the parched throat
With floes of impending devotion,
Its sand and mud flats would banish the flagrance
From minds remiss of design and then bloom,
While flares of brilliant hues exterminate
Throughout all fields of sloth, the call
Of despondency:  the long lost jetsam
Washed ashore, deriding mortality
Resting in the sun of the breaking morn.

March 5, 2011

1 comment: