Nothing

On the triumph of gleaming eyebeams
like soaked stains, grinding chills,
behold, a green tomb,
lies leafy and shrouded in mist.

Truth! What is this faery?
The faint lifeless fingers of this soft hand.
She leads me to this garden;
it shimmers like early spring.
The mist grows heavy here,
but the sounds seep into
twitching, enraptured ears.

The lifeless path is strewn.
Most drearily, the air is moist,
and sight cannot seize the roses,
it gazes forward, backwards,
at my own hands
in this strange wilderness.

Where is the goal?
Truth as the shining steed,
Where the footsteps slow and crouch
and the knees bend, and the heart beats content,
unturned by the gyre of scattering seeds.
I hear the fountain,
it replays, memory like, crisp and sore,
but it spouts, gurgling at its gargolyle lips.

What ancient lives
the house enshrined, what deaths
have planted this steady house
to the soil of a deepening past,
one cannot say,
for all questions and all answers,
unlike men and lusts,
live elsewhere.