by Ian G Graham…
Do the horns of time,
sound for us –
in sallow metered rhyme?
Or frown upon our bended frame –
a marked receding lame?
Or locate meaning in a self-imposed vacuum –
truth weighed on melting castles –
where petty claimants swim and strangle reality in existential soup.
I cry tears that matter…
An illusion in a liquid dream,
Plato’s cat builds castles in her sandpit,
matchsticks rain down to strike a revolution,
Failing progressiveness of everything…
Is cosmology circus tricks and acts?
A cold stirring of skeletal uprisings in protest about death?