The endless poise of would-be suitors
waiting in the wings
who watch in silence for some signal
that Beauty’s watchman brings
The darkened tower above the chasm
where maidservants kneel
in service to some kind of madness
Beauty seems to feel
The empty halls of empty armor
memories of campaigns
that sought to prove the end of fighting;
the hallowed hills refrain:
There is no use in wishful thinking;
time is much better spent
constructing moats of spider’s webs
or building tissue tents.
The tuneless song of untrained cantors
humming in the halls
who write their programs for recital
on the crumbling walls
The lamplight study of the martyr,
dagger to his breast,
who writes in tears his testament
while visions manifest
The quiet hush of the new morning
creeping from the moor
that serves as a forged invitation,
turned back at the door
There is no point in dialogue
when ears are closed to sound;
let loose the time saved for such things,
let the great bells resound
1 JUN 2005
