A Woman In Arms In The Whirl Of Warring Weights
Riding The Hills Again — Into The Opaque Sunsets — A Poem Of Momentary Solitude
A Passing Hero, a Clashing of the Sun unto the Last Edges of the Moon to this Tranquil Night before the Finalizing Clash
©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
PLAY this rendition to befit the desired temperament I intended for this.
AFracture was had, all good and tidy, wasn’t it, my dear Friday —
On that, it came down as something laden with prejudices to incite
All their hopes away;
A sign to reconsider the justness in their vice, and the stealing form
Done by some kind of mother form.
O; laden the cheat, Oh, Hero, fine to the spots of chiding steels —
Operate no longer beyond our descent
Of clouding perfumes, that incite the senses into the bounds of
The pureness notes of perfidy.
O; Hero, save our slumping form, come and contest it, why don’t you?
When this clash comes, the severing of not just heads will come
As the triumphs of Jerico are belted out the finely crescent
Tubs of refined bronze;
Fit — fit — fit; clash!
Laugh at it no longer, when the odd shapes beckon the old
And young into the sights of civil war.
The wistful, the deep and lick in it;
Too potent to protest, when one cycles thro’
Their foolish lapses of persuasion for the awful right
That folds down on us now, to cease us worthy to
Our intellectual of forceful sight.
O; laden the cheat, flat as the ground, whence the Heros behaved
Now the faucets of time commence them to intimate slaughter.
Rip line, and hold too fondly, the stealing burdens of war!
O; Hero, there is naught for one to do, in the closing tides
That bide all man to the burdensome actions of iron fisting and
Gabbling magniloquence on the mark; before the sight, right there,
On the steel, on this hill, before the battle.
Riddle that hero this, and will his lines of truthfulness fold?
If the stripes that rue his scorn are true, will he not behead
His now-turned-foe;
If it is true — if it could be true, I hope he will not.
To so quickly turn on our loyalties; to hinge on our faith in another, is one
Of the most hurting fads to live through; and been through once before…
This is all I could fear —
Tug — Tug — brittle thing!
All that I could, now. It is the evenings' garb, fit to be passed,
And the unbearable measure of weight, for the eyeing passage
Of this, hung heavily over me, is almost total.
Wait, and they will not —
Go, and they shall;
Both so foolish, yet I can gleam it so
Quickly in my mind; it's almost too perfect,
Yet so bitter — so bitter, it must be the consumption
Of my eager hopes, that they will not.
He shall die, whilst another shall not;
To whatever injury, to whatever ends.
I commit and remain to the etching toil
Just awhile longer —
Day to be the bridge that is quickly
Sprang across tonight;
I am committed
To the seconds;
By the hour —
Per the view,
Till the awful sunrise is met,
Over the nightfall —
So it goes… [Snickers] Whilst there, the startled doves go overhead…
And this continuation of our hopes and fears
Are to be then thusly diminished on that opened field;
Killed right there, it seems.
Wherein, the fates screech the fifth, and the minor fall
Commanding whichever hero whom than shall arise,
Whilst the other one darned to the earthly intercourse,
Remains righteous evermore, and we to abide
By that ruling.
That is the moment I speak of, my daughter.
Just that then, when it beckons itself to pass.
I remain loathing to its unenviable inertia
That gauges me to nausea —
Purely, and refined to that jumbling of my
Once settled innards— the rasp of the knocking
Cage to that final day.
So please go, and afford me that stray moment,
Before this awful fright, and so it to be done —
Yes, it must now be done.
Done, it shall only be hereafter.
Goodnight, my fairing-daughter.
Goodnight…
Goodnight.
COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER
LIFE IS THE ACT OF THE BECOMING — MORNING PAPERS:
The Curation; Our Publication:
THE THUDDING MACHINATIONS OF THE CLOCK:
As ever, Dear Reader.
