Trees tower over 

Human affairs, perplexed

By our follies;

Their rings mark time

In a dignified manner, 

While we strive to run

Rings round each other,

Ignobly, if needs must;

Besides, trees know

What we often ignore:

That even the garlanded

Amongst us can't ensnare

Time; they, too, helplessly

Will see sand devoured

Inside a glass of hours...

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By animus animated, 

As if aspiring to

Mercilessness, conspiring

To harm, but when

Push comes to shove, 

They deflect, even

Gloat, as their 

Perjured words pollute

The air, yet fail

To cloak their soul's 

Practised emptiness...

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There's many a splintered

heart to be plucked

from the endless

repertoire of reverie, 

where thought-up hells

and dreamed-up heavens

might come alive, 

at least until

some rooster proves

yet again that 

it cannot lie;

so the misty realms 

simply melt, for

they were but the 

susurrus of a sorceress,

not some fruition 

of augury; better still, 

for ...

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The asters will insist

On blooming, even

If the bridges

In the rear-view

Are flaming still;

On the road

Between despondency

And acquiescence,

Might there lurk

The needed epiphany?

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Dressed as it is

In sheep's clothing, 

This wolf will 

Cry 'Wolf!',

Hoping to fool

The uninitiated...

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The dreamcatcher won't deter

The dirge to be, 

In a world awhirl 

With possibility, 

Where musings mumbled

Suddenly mesh

With the footfall of angels, 

As they scavenge 

For our lost humanity...

But, perhaps, 

It takes a dirge 

For an anthem 

To be birthed...

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An avarice for sun

And the daydream 

Rent asunder

By an ineluctable geography,

As the realms couldn't mesh

For warriors seasoned

Yet perplexed, still

Murmuring an anthem

That no longer does the trick,

Causing nobody to shapeshift 

Into the needed saviour

Who wouldn't bow down

To the fateful ultimatum...

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Anchored to anachronisms,

Unnerved by the footfall

Of antiquity, wavering

Before the wink

Of posterity, clinging

To an infantile innocence

As compass through

The maze of counterfeit

Embraces, pleading

For alignment of era,

Purpose, honesty

On faces...

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The tightrope hovers,

Tempting the less faint of heart

To walk, or wonder...

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Windswept quester, 

Defector from certainty, 

Wishing to be absolved

Of a stuttering resolve, 

Imbued now with a fervour

Akin to a renewal of will, 

Detecting the susurrus

Of an aphorism to be, 

Or some relentless motif

That will stand sentinel

At every turn

Of this curious carnival

To be traversed,

Before every incongruity 

Melts into the stranglehold

...

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A serpentine saviour

Won't be a saviour

At all, and irony

Irrigates this soil,

After all;

Yet there's a minor chord

Humbly persisting in truth,

A minor skew tending

Towards what we should do:

Some thinly-veiled idealism

That might guide

Our better angels still,

If only we can find

That spark of life

In the silt...

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