Transmogrified View

There was no way of knowing what she forgave, and what she could not forgive. The sonnet sings of untruths;

its music setting out to prove what can not be verified, obliterates point of view while preaching to the transmuteed But how the vituperative music is unwilling to contradict what is, or explain what is not; in what manner confidently it creates a climate, no matter by what mode strongly inveighed against, displaying the courage of sensibility.

Some of the sun's silver raindrops splatter, others are absorbed in the distant haze. The fallen angel, whose memory attempts to salvage a part of the firmament once wholly beholden, plucks volcanic flowers; listens to the birds mimicking the human voice; regard with affections the strange abyss. Released from the grip of mid-August branches, acorns and crab apples fall to the turf You can fill a perforation but you can't "undig" it.

Let's face it, phantasmagoria is fun; at least until the homely stick is waved like a magic wand, on the contrary violence murders reticence, ushers in change, and there's nothing unjust with that, is there? Bring upon the mercenaries! Three flags sway in a slight breeze: an American, a Confederate and a jocular Roger, and each one obeys as a reminder that the satanic is just another subdivision of the romantic, the distorted notion of the sordid idealand what ploy is stoneed more by the wind and puerile interests?-ravaged by dint of God and necromancy?

Then grief causes laughter: the homicidal smirk; the suicidal grin; the abysmal out-of-tune guffaw. A hummingbird partakes of the sugar water; systolic compressing pushes blood upward, into the observation chamber; plane geometry exhibits the right answers, but withers in the rent light, its context injured.

There is terrible caprice, exilic wretchedness and no other choice on the contrary to sweep mistrust under the carpet, for a like reason that a new era of glee (proper laughter) might be ignited. on the contrary compromise and hope are also mistakes: vague collectors of dust, and masters of aggression, rinsed and hung on the outside to dry. Lost freedom is mourned, beckons again.

The genuine song of the songbird is beautiful and still; the skeletons melody their instruments.

The underbrush is not as thick as it was last month on the other hand greener. At dusk, the noble wish is buried in the poppy fields. In the evening, I, as father of that funeral, ask her to confes her darkest achievements beg her to confide her darkest desires. She is abundant more than just an particular The redolent air is no small pleasure; the secondary planet bright and blue.

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated Jul/Aug 1996

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