Untitled

[andave_ya]

The purple is the quiet-flowing Don -
The constant as the nations break, blow, burn, are made.
The wine-colored waterfall the gate of longing;
The vision of time only bookended with hope and joy.
The white recalls the light coursing through the years.
The pink sounds a fluffy tone of dissonance
To serve her to remember she can't be
deadened to the mindless cry outside,
From innocuous men turned into beetles,
and Lears with no redemptions,
no matter how long and how hard Minas Tirith burns.
The bed the ship's hammock for a soul steeped in story,
While Treebeard standing guard over Lord and Lady Poetry
dare not make a sound,
and the books perched on the shoulders of a many-limbed tree
are the library of the world's souls.
They shut their pages at night so he might rest and dream
and so grant Ivan short sweet reprieve,
before human nature's inexorable march
teaches the Forms to crumble into dust
before the coffin it carries:
"God is dead, and we have killed Him."
And beetles and Lears are bereft of compassion,
and Numenor is lost.
The light fades.
The Don dries,
and I'm-on-nobody's-side-because-nobody's-on-my-side,
because their souls are dead.
The center does not hold.
The falcon does not heed the falconer.
The mimsy borogroves gyre and gimble in
an increasingly desolate wabe
littered with fairy wings still iridescent
amidst dusty leaves.
Those left with integrity stand condemned
before golden gods whose eyes
turn backward into themselves.
But somehow Zephyr still blows,
and the hard clear colorless sky is dotted
with a cloud the size of a hand on the horizon.
"Eloi, Eloi" will turn to joy
when the Spirit of the Age finds its lost chest
in the light glinting off the
glass goblets of pulsing crimson,
to Whom the books on my shelves
make deep obeisance.