The Descent
A poem on fate
Vague things rooted way down deep Crack
Like grain on hardwood. Arbitrary sawing Pattern.
The markings are deeply and particularly etched. The accident is Irreversible.
A certain face emerges with every word. Revelation is Imminent.
My heart is bitten: blues and reds run out of It.
Old Roman art: blood red mosaic, haunting shades and Arches.
The fog is thick. Somewhere between rock and sand I Drift.
Am I looking at a painting by Corot or Mi Fei?
Life is largely about losing, losing one’s grip — uncertain Footing.
Hope wears the clown’s cap I am deep inside her Comedy.
Rich red Merlot Deep dark chocolate. Harvest
I have finally achieved failure. I am Ripe.
Becoming heavy, growing down into soil, Aging.
Darkening, staining — it’s a crooked growth; necessary? Unnecessary?
Take this axe. I am Ready.
© Carlo Zeno 2022
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