Temple's Ring
APR 27, 2025
Orchid fluorescence and colors of spring
that die in the wake of rain
turreted to my way of being;
the spiral that heals the pain.
If only I could die once more
and haunt the melodies on piano strings,
maybe then I could soar
as the bird that flew above all meanings.
It harmonizes over top the prairie grasses
and lays side-by-side to dancers,
and their point shoes on top the glasses
that shoot blades across the necks of jesters;
Oh how I wish it would reach the neck
of my own skin, but I am no jester
and I do not feed the grasses or fly
nor have I been born a miraculous death.
It has only been that I was the one of many,
the many that chose to encapsulate their livelihoods
to the corpus of waking evil
and the evidence of no mercy, laughs that bellow
Through the rich man as he prowls
but I think myself not mightier than these prowlers
because that would be a farce
and that kind of pride would haunt me to sleep.
It is only that my depth of dreams
has been filled with keys,
some of which I praise in their gleams
all kept sacred inside the girl who sees.
And I have seen plenty
of the filth crowding any a poor man’s painting
that turned the century,
but the crowd forgets the man painted not for savoring.
It is true, we do not paint for flavor or favor
nor do we for the king,
but it is for righteousness and honor
that which is bestowed upon the temple’s ring.
