Passageways

    Greet the days -
        greet the moon,
            gather the stars.. .
    Man is not at one with himself -
    collars the infidel ways of his
    race under pressure domes of widening silence.

    I scan the horizon barely cognizant
    of the metallic bits that pierce
    the night's crown - no
    jewelled orb stabs this queen's spectre.
    I am running and lost. . . ever slow
    to breech this reasoning.

    Honeysuckle mist with armfuls
    of orange lilies with scent stronger
    than the carriage needed in their gathering.

    Place the constellations upon their heads,
    the colour so transcends.
    And then there are the bludgeoned
    stars fallen into the eyes of
    my farmhouse scene.
    The sphinx moth that darns the night
    with her acrobatics escapes the wreath
    of troubled moon that places about
    her proboscised head.
    Let her stone the night in peace,
    feel palpitations on her ocean breast.

    The darting of stone cracks in fissures
    along the causeway to the stonehouse
    is certain and sure.
    A definite mood projects
    the starling tunnels,
    forlorn now with limpid darkness,
    crushed lavender from the pews
    of thoughtful night.

    There are armfuls of crushed bats
    in the passageway to my heart,
    each reeking with squeals
    to alarm the most frightened princess.
    Only one has stained the pass key
    and I must find her.

    A toad abides the thoughtful recess
    broken under the wall.
    He is a good toad and mourns
    the night creaking from the river bed.
    A monster dragon to the insects
    making a living near the light -
    a source of amused contempt to lepidoptrists
    squeezing the eye's circle,
    pressing her to release her giddy charms.

    At morning, skeletal remains
    shall stain the blighted chain (mood collector, toad, moth)
    but, for now, only the night buzzes with alarm,
    cracking her secrets with each tiny monster
    hurled at light's intrusion into dark.

    Perchance I shall narrow
    down the divide, position alarms,
    remind myself I am inured to the
    mood & scent that mans this cosmic bandwagon.
    I hold up flowers to remind me
    light escapes through jelly
    and that rare LUMINESCENCE exists only
    in lost bat chambers
    buried deep near the recesses
    of the snake.

    The cry of havoc,
    all those armfuls of collapsed lilies
    breaking under the toil of enforced handshakes
    leaves me like a broken lamp.
    I have no more shades to patch
    the plinths or barricade my heart.
    I have left my love on bended knee
    in a land I choose to forget.