Face Remains The Same
Thrust upon his
throne, he read his letter, blind;
and turned the words, one with another, in her mind:
He wept, forlorn.
The tap water hissed, a snake in his miasmatic mist:
solemnity turned it out,
and it left the bitter sacrarium, of his mind;
His very own pernicious inner blind.
With each brief tear, a year.
He was alone. A charted wilderness of boundless boundaries:
Driven, he would wander, until at razors edge,
life would reveal a death.
We toss our own coin, an epoch or an epitaph,
Heartily he would laugh;
The bastion, his spirited whole, the only true soul,
and laughter offers all a gate,
to meliorate, this ambivilent
and capricious fallacy, we honour as reality.
Heartily he laughed,
a Brahmans smile.
Yet his face remained the same.