Reality is the Irregularity of the Past.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

The Wayward Drifter

Light purged the sorrowed highway, longing;

High-back indecent, crescent-shape waning,

Sweet nectar poured-fresh, tarnished elixir,

To Men and Gods bow not, Wayward Drifter.

Remorse has set the tempo’s guiding note,

Reprise for the Castles’ drying mote;

Burn slow on the windy Candle’s ember:

All hail the leaving o’ the Wayward Drifter.

Scraggly, reckless, longing, ever-stained;

Retrospectively to Now depraved,

There’s nothing more for nothing gained,

Like the coyote; scavenger of Day.

It is ever night in the Garden of Stone,

Irrefutable accounts chill the Bone,

And on them disgraced by Weather,

He walks undaunted, paths of no others’.

There’s a Ghost ship upon dark water waiting,

With a lone crew ghastly and fading,

Riggins, rudders; flags mangled thither:

Beware the tidings of The Wayward Drifter…

And when afloat on the ocean’s current,

No trustworthiness share’s him in torment;

Awhile in a daze and lurid stupor,

Driftwood transient from upstream wayward.

No comments:

Post a Comment