Ranting 2

Jarbrook

The stopped up muse reads:
The hidden hand, the gravestone
we struggle to read, to interpret into words. To translate
into the rhythms of the long slide.

I am lost in the confines of that spurious freedom
so charged with its unnatural gait,
dragging souls like sacks, on the wound-tilled floor.
Of that workshop, which remains when the dust has settled.

I see the dirt that lies before us. That sick playground,
when hopes are dead, and lies are spun.
Or was it desire alone that could breach all meaning?
Either way, its incredible.