What storeyed stele lays buried here,
by Michael Walkerjohn
interned beneath the toxic layers of one fools mind;
cast deep below the trough of life,
and covered, by the filthy sneer of mortal hope
once recognized and challenged since,
an unfinished tool comprised of loose knit facts;
absent of thought, and with deft lament,
this unheard voice through and around the darkness cries.
compressed, herein these bloodied tombs,
unhinged of life and threatened, by the ends of time;
suffice in breath and living's sacraments',
mourned sighs, discern a soul completely deperdit.
and to this the very world does pine,
heart's touch, upon one's conscience stares;
stern warnings stretch, the brow of one who seeks to learn,
in irony, does consciousness soon bore.
the weight, of living's choice so chose,
against the flow of mortal life, what clock will turn;
life's cache, these grains of sand complete,
with a loose mosaic, of which this stele is unique.
mixed sufferings, deeply stuffed,
between debauchery's cheek;
compose the shuffling steps and quaff,
of that subconscious drink.
of life and limb and stool, does death concern,
within this mesh and in addition too;
an effort, besides the will's affect as flame to burn,
inside a life, and as in stone.
a line of dust, into one layer turned,
where we seek an answer, to this burial's mystery;
of logic think, and precede an eyebrow's nod,
dig, into this thought's audacity.
spend, in a moments reach that expanse,
the mind, does grasp of living's sought for link;
upon this calm, in time's mulling a minds repose,
questions abound around, the all and gist of this.
what line, composed of breathing's grains insists,
within this buried tonic stele;
will any answer, therefore to lay,
realizing the sentience that rankles anyone.
endlessly intruding, into all patent wonder,
of how dubitation in any mind so plays;
that tune of guess, or ponder of a question's whim,
which turns all certitude on head.
and rights the mind, to what this story told,
from grains to stele, in layers sieve or mortal boon;
an image, reaped from deep within one's visions vivid tomb,
your chance, for lively glee or failure's circumstance.
layered between the long lost ides of living's fate,
and are as such, do stand alone beside the slight of chance.