Shall we not take heed this Visions’ call?
Of the lost sons and the dying tree,
In the missing girl and the Great Fall;
Shall we not take need o’ this Prophesy?
Procure the skin-shed as We stand waiting,
Longing for the truthful bones to return.
The sky ties back and juts the clouds raining,
All the peasants call for the Flood Urn;
“Mother, sweet Mother, what hast in time done
We?” they cry, “Mother, o’ Mother, spare Us
Please!” “We know better than to stand alone.”
Adolescent lint denotes th’sandy crust,
Great psyches reach from Forethought’s collective scheme,
(Diverted Mass shall catch the furious deluge);
A Mystic calls through a reed fence meme,
Peckham’s Prophet hast lent a ported rouge:
Alas! Deliver thyself from Thyself!
Canst thou not lie bawdy-faced to the Muse?
Dance the Trickster’s dance; celebrate in stealth,
The worship of the Noble ones’ Virtues—
Naked as the Maenads in ritual,
The Wine sours into turpentine;
Make thy Sacrifice habitual,
Seraphim gestures have turn’d Serpentine;
By all the Nature of things Above and Below
The maiden flower breathes Life’s last breath;
As a token of the Lord’s false control,
Hast put all Beautiful creatures to Death!