virtuoso
10-29-2013, 11:52 AM
Death blots his intuitive channels,
yet one universal sentence remains
etched on his pale, drawn face
stenciled on his, peaked forehead;
"Organic substances are the provender
of Mother Earth"
But beneath its dark veil,
Death grants a temporal stime
of the animated shadow
that hovered in its mortal prime
A columnist by trade
dressed in the trappings of his grade.
A tweed suit of solemn gray;
A flossy, red bow tie,
and black trousers graced
with tidy cuffs
On his face dated lines,
not only mortality's sign,
but spent words pressed and signed.
In his ridged forehead, columns stitched
baring the strains of stretched skin,
alternately, the pillars of ink
stamped on shards of pulp
Hands not soiled by the earth,
nor grizzled by heavy machines;
genteel covers, with creased palms
sharing the tireless words
that flowed from sentient mind
Through narrow locks of bone and skin,
streams of ink poured over chalky sediments,
then congealed on the cutting floor;
the bottom line rising to the surface
Now posterity sinks into perpetuity
to be tapped not by contemporary scribes
who fork off, building virgin channels,
but by itinerant sailors-historians, scholars
dipping their oars into deep, murky waters,
as sponges, dredging, then soaking up spent lines
expunging the moss-covered, cankered strands
their own, glossy portfolios to expand
So lies a lifeless pantomime,
words enfolded into Legacy's twine,
indexed not to society's prime interest rate,
amortized and sealed in Time's dark vault.
As his words stagnate in dingy, archive dungeon,
his languid corpse decays in subterranean prison
yet one universal sentence remains
etched on his pale, drawn face
stenciled on his, peaked forehead;
"Organic substances are the provender
of Mother Earth"
But beneath its dark veil,
Death grants a temporal stime
of the animated shadow
that hovered in its mortal prime
A columnist by trade
dressed in the trappings of his grade.
A tweed suit of solemn gray;
A flossy, red bow tie,
and black trousers graced
with tidy cuffs
On his face dated lines,
not only mortality's sign,
but spent words pressed and signed.
In his ridged forehead, columns stitched
baring the strains of stretched skin,
alternately, the pillars of ink
stamped on shards of pulp
Hands not soiled by the earth,
nor grizzled by heavy machines;
genteel covers, with creased palms
sharing the tireless words
that flowed from sentient mind
Through narrow locks of bone and skin,
streams of ink poured over chalky sediments,
then congealed on the cutting floor;
the bottom line rising to the surface
Now posterity sinks into perpetuity
to be tapped not by contemporary scribes
who fork off, building virgin channels,
but by itinerant sailors-historians, scholars
dipping their oars into deep, murky waters,
as sponges, dredging, then soaking up spent lines
expunging the moss-covered, cankered strands
their own, glossy portfolios to expand
So lies a lifeless pantomime,
words enfolded into Legacy's twine,
indexed not to society's prime interest rate,
amortized and sealed in Time's dark vault.
As his words stagnate in dingy, archive dungeon,
his languid corpse decays in subterranean prison