THE POET DESTROYED BY FIRE

Winged Blue Shadows III

                 Salute the ice interminable.
                  Delayed, the call echoes across a miasma of downcast matter, afloat, adrift, imagining, impossible.
                  Extension into dismal eternity of dislocation. Body naked. The book contains useless enigmas of destruction showing no solution, no heartbreaks, no vessel to hold the final glimmer of a soul exhausted by such a struggle.
                   Downcast the eyes, lost, destroyed in fires of cosmic ice – in the vacuous deeps of their cruelty, imagining one holocaust, enacting another. My own.
                   In the streets ravaged by alarms, detonations and the crying of orphaned dogs, brittle glances penetrate the shell encasing this luminous thought.
                   Poet? No more.
                   Destroyed in a fire which sweeps unchecked. Chequered history of bridges collapsing under their own weight, deprived of sense, reason and any pretext for remembrance.
                    Obsequies of winged blue shadows infect the aura of sleep.
                    Delayed the call.
                    Dislocation my naked soul.
                    Useless enigma of eternal fire.

 

 

 

A C Evans

 


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