What is
this effluence that rises deep within
the midnight
hour when bleak reality reveals
her hidden
hand, conspiring vibrant fruit, and Man
can sense a
stirring far beyond the barren path
of opulent,
bejeweled, fattened, clinging hands
that wait
to wring the neck of the gay firebird
and quell
the longing heart in desperation vain,
but wither
like fair Persephone’s narcissus?
O, how I
have felt it these past few week of late:
the inexplicable
desire to see my thoughts
inscribed,
immortal like some new constellation,
the sky to
set on fire as Helios cannot.
Throughout the
pain and anguish of my days, which drive
the wise to
this inescapable conclusion:
that Heaven
can’t be stopped by some hypothesis,
it slowly
does occur: Winter’s finally here.
12/21/14
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