Night’s Last Mare
No brushstrokes broad of boot black pitch,
can ever overpaint her cold canvas of the mind,
some scored etchings never can be disguised
and symbols do battle behind sleeping eyes,
stream stifled pasts amid his insentient sighs.
Looped memories under droning tanpura glitch
her unfolding in foggy billows of rolling cloak,
swamp hope, dump tidal bores of misanthrope
as how the full moon births misshapen things,
blooming from a lost without to toss within.
Like bludgeoning hooves stir up choking dust
so rusty spectres coalesce upon drowsy sleep
approach existence then in fragment retreat,
galloping past returns to her a glossy mane,
removes ancient lines, rebuilds youth’s frame.
She up rears aloft, brandishing Terror’s lust,
parting curtains of remembrance in harvest,
where pure children play but he is farthest
planted among daisies that no longer chain
with no buttercupped gold to guild her chin.
Her words given life’s breath that might seem,
can never penetrate into darkness of dreams,
ooze like healing oils, fill time’s inmost theme.
She conjures warmth but lets slip sterner stuff,
and revulsion which was, will be ever enough.
Perfect.
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