Legacies of passion bred are anger, isolation,
Milks and agèd wines of absolutes, the rites of self-pronunciation
Bridled only by the use of an abacus and an eager congregation
Of admirers, sycophants whose impatience as a disposition
Renders plaudits based in raw consensus and the mass;
Spores of imitation multiply in the moonbeam’s registration
As in the wonders of a single drop, all satisfaction
Grounded not so much in what is there, but crass
Exaggeration of importance brewed
From natural focus and the power of digits in a queue
Eliminating all that lies outside the droplet’s view
Of unabated force of arrogance in a living stew.
Take away the copyright, the licence, and the chit,
Remove the barriers, and all that’s left of passion is the writ.
Its spectres gathered inward from the months and years ahead.
I know my place in all of this and know it’s not beside my bed
But there among the orphaned and the dispossessed
That I address my prayer along the paths on which all crawl. Bred
To this and to the refuse and the residue of banquet halls,
I am a herald of the many visions only barely heard or weakly dreamed.
In times like these it is from these I must be weaned: we address what seems
And leave the rest to chance. We bear cacophony within these stalls
And mask what’s left in history. Newborn luminaries here within my candle’s
Tower’s stout enough, will take the memory and melody through the thick
Of youth, the middle primes, and then, alas, no further. Though the wick
Be bound in massive waxen walls, the stand and handle
Well secured, today I am remembered and remember well the wounded womb
From which I came, and seek for nothing less than this within tomorrow’s tomb.