For Those Who Are About to

  

Dying, tethered to the sun

having touched once to the hot metal

the flowers of love’s heart.

Like a dark Spanish poet of his mind,

become weary as an old castle

too proud to die,

but bound solid to earth

as a horse is cobbled & grates

slipping on the riprap of losing memory & flesh.

 

Music in the electric clouds plays its light & dark hymns

for the remedial ears.

 

Dying, its feet stuck in deep ice, a watery nostalgia

of solitudes the mind walking the streets

& parks & forest love making,

the eyes & faces of cities

& the landscapes painted by the blood & colors of an infused artist.

 

Dying, of serious games winning nothing.

Dying, of lost loves & the rage of light.

The wind is howling now &

the ears have lost its reason.