Three hourglasses Stand side by side Each filled with coarse black sand.
Peering silently Into distances without aim Or countenance, They have accepted That fury is dead, That the gilded raven Still cries for remission From remnants of shivering liturgies Robbed of their skin.
Reflection has eaten itself raw Into a vast burrow With bores on every side Slithering caterpillar-like into A destiny of hollow regrets And tawdry labyrinthine eulogies.
A crack emerges and spreads Like a self-directed pestilence Amid a population of Scattering anti-heroes And descending demi-gods.
Dust forms along the base of Dreams that have long dissipated Into an infinity of somber particulars. Future accompanies a hapless paradise Into a darkened chamber Filled with breathless beady-eyed imps Panting out old southern hymns From their soot-drenched songbooks.
What the coming rain fails to redeem We will want to keep embalmed In this container However imperfect; However damaged, Until the shell is ready to be Compromised, And the demons let out, One, by one, by one.
Art: “Landscape Around Chatou” André Derain