“These, My Words”
These, my words, will not endure; they dwell
Within a canvas stretched taut by hand, writ with blood
That has no patience in its present station. The cud
Is there, perhaps, and what is felt
May be forgiven its fibres. Thatched roofs and hives
Yield similitudes and some passion, a slight nod,
Perhaps at best, a stay of execution but sans lightning rod,
A tool, a catalyst with which its throne and queen survives
The movement of a story ere the day they find themselves alone.
Something ever lacking in the honey. Light needs reveal their secrets
In the rough draft as natural tides recede in time in egress
From the scene; but what? What remains in the station of a drone?
No progress is forthcoming in the champions of an age
Where the presence of the tides means a mere turning of the page.
…painting by Zao Wou-ki…