Exile long poem

Exile long poemPhoto by Jonas B

Those verities of secular graft consent
to travel, to banish. Snow departs to
light; to adorn with pristine bloom the
trees rapt and oozing dramatic spoils

for the provident birds, with yawning
sloughs and water-snakes churning the
dead in hotbeds, the fine-trimmed
shadows thick with fever. In the most

forested saunas, upheld in amazement,
crocuses vaunt and torch themselves to
our likeness, no more than anemones
stare with blue tongue exhibited like some

primal smirk. Fierce as prophets come,
toward an imminent fortune where
common man is left nothing but the
shaken air of his ruin: having smelt the

vines thirst to misrule, miracle-kings
altered in eyes and custom from many
years of wandering; engrossed in banquets,
demons with their sores and feasts of

endurance, to exuberate passion
and conquest, auguries, dung of sulphur,
plotting in the forsaken ground, abiding their
colourful injuries that discharge to govern the scene.

The elite attune themselves to the gyre, but it is
the androgynous youth who remake the adored
gods in their cleansing, the semblance of requited
terror, with renounced masques revealing the fool

to his posthumous fame. Withdrawn from view,
lightning perfects the basking fur. Slowly vanquishing,
together, knowing the gripped winds and monument
of tides, thrones to be occasioned in the edified spume,

we surmounted the salts of paradise, to
the renewable phosphorus resting heavy on
the brain; the rewards, the anonymous graves,
where tearing waters answered our calls.

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Death In Exile

Death In Exile short poem

He had pulled in many springs but failed to find a heaven. Asked not to look away. In absences he tried to enter the wounds again. An aboriginal pain flies over my shoulder. A spiritual failure of mankind? Counting unctuously