deepundergroundpoetry.com

UGHTEN

Conventiculum, stolen from the trees
A temple to our despondence
All are static against the wheat

At crepuscular reflections
Moonlight embraced the ripples
On the surface of the water
From last eve's tempest

A creature cries out, woefully
In the distance...

From my shaking hands, and to the ground
That benevolent light fills the room
And I sigh to the passing clouds
For the attendant sky weeps for you

But...
Internalized or otherwise
No semblance of relief would linger
And the stench of brimstone
Sobering

Luciform then dismissed, and comes the rain
As if perpetuating the lamentation
Adds to the deluge already nigh

Thought I saw for a moment
A gaunt hand reaching from the grave
Fingernails, frost-bitten blue
Clutched that rosary I left for you

Locked and chained, that black casket
Dark as the shrouds o'er mourning crowds
The obfuscation of night was a welcome debt
And when all others faded...
It was only I and the void of sound

Grief bled whispers, a tragic tune
Ire for the mundane, marrow of our bones
Standing there in that shadow bloom
That extends past all venue of hope

A loss of subjectivity, value diminished
That is the cross upon which you reside
Floccipended by the tide...

The world is now rebuilt around that purgatory
Time has become our sedate carriage
Watching nature forget this place

And the gale whistles through the rope now
That still sways gently upon the bough