The Search

The Search

She once constant kissed

him by moon cooled pond

under crisp willows blessed;

four heady words were wished,

decanting his sunrise blood red.

Tassellated bulrushed fingers swept

felt his tracks and wept.

Those self-same tears

have long fallen now

brought forth back-paths

where leaves black fertilised

lay lines like drills, past planted,

fast irrigated ditched streams.

Counter stitching strong currents,

his headstrong swimming

against futured morning mists.

Ghosting, she fades in, rolls

seed heads of bittercress,

cleavers him to her tight,

cowslips his slipping grasp,

binds with white weeds

those insecure wracked wrists,

horizontal holds and tracking

under unfixed sextant star

above, twists his tissues,

tortures nothing as such.

He feels it, fevered shrieks

of burns, boils, I’ll not returns,

weak, those dribbled imperatives

never thinks he’ll come again.

But her fast forward or backtrack

mirrored by the stretching rack

yokes them by reflected lake.

Enthralled both corporeal shake

loose, glide atop Lillith’s lilies,

still fast bound for foothills,

slow thawed both beneath

sun’s pondered backscatterings

gathers to him vestal moon

with light cobwebs pale.

Now their sky streaks hail

down teal windowed glass,

voyaging forward rainbow cast

borne on sycamore seeded sails

in murmured flight, ascending,

travelling past outlying interiors

perhaps in hope, perhaps in fear:

some who search for lost ones dear,

some who should not venture here,

some who should fear to trample

on the corpses of the living

and the almost dead. But she smiles.

Takes him for old time’s sake.

Buries his head to milky breast

sighs sure, for certain it will be

over soon enough where there’s rest

for those wicked enough to see

through doors. Shocked, 
now looming large before him, 
shooken free of his guide

he withdraws and wipes, in fury

fast judders, unscabbards his sword,

you bring us back to this, this, this:

where once we constant kissed,

named us unspeakable, kissed,

cleaved with machete, still kissed

endless yet kissed us both to hell.

This past foresight lies not in your gift,

it is where my fantasies will exist

for fools being fooled

must their dreams be ripped

by murky raiding magpies stripped

who look in looking, look back

strong in motive, strong in crime,

weak in vision, weak in rhyme,

blunt in imagining; they lack

what it takes to ever learn,
sledgehammer pounding 
my mind's anvil,
batter until I crash and burn:
More clearly does he see wrong's right, 

wrenched free his hand in slapped spite,
before he might attain full flight
over moon cooled pond, 
seeks release.

Fall fast full fall and surely peace.