Gates

this is the dark season
the drive to the fabled gothic house
barred by the grating of the gate of tales
a gate that enshroud by web like bonds
seem locked in their silken habitude of yarn
yet see the hard wrought ferrous mongery
is split across two seemingly unrelated tales
one hinged upon the brass and oil of self improvement
and at first it seemed its creeping nigrous machinery would not be moved
for tomorrow never comes for the procrastinator
behind its incomplete and hollow mask
there is only nihilism in its empty silent house
ungenerous in unsmiling simile its vacant ogees, spans and sympathies
abandoned rooms where paper peels in silent bells a downward
and wood frames a-lice are rotted brown and musty crumbling
knowing that some things cannot be mended is to accept fate
or counter in the natives of its tongue one may argue fate
to break the chains that bind those gates
throw them open
step through their uncomfortable undoing
and as counterpoise one should hazard that
wisdom is knowing that a goal may not be
what it was once perceived
and that objectives move with unfailing trickery
so be happy now as entity allows
and not saving its savour for some fictitious future
that is what you meant isn't it
indeed that was your idiom
your torch taken to its gothic furniture
as you left its framework burning
the lamp of embers lit your journey out
and one gate opened
the other swung limply between here and there
unoiled abstracted thinking creaking

old woman wretch
nostrils slits as castle battlements are slitted
leptorrhinic drawn its beak-like tip
lightly haired and rustic
the crevices out of arid canyons crept
along the hoary eyelash never blinking
to meet her thyroid eyes
black wells like drug-house holes where corpses lay
and down the lay lines pulled by age
and withered tissue across the bony tendril sinew
and the melanoma
flabby dactyl folds a flapping
play with motions airs
and hair so cotton thin and limp
weak tunes upon its languid movement
in ancient motets and curls it rose
and like a rung worn rag
it hobbled barely covered freckled ears
afferent these senses all conveyed
for in the desiccations cavern dwelt
at the centrum where all things meet for joy
a brain cerebral polished in its armoury
that sharp as blades in fury
mash all to blood and guts
she moves a bone
its finger twitches
its eye an instant flickers
but cant precisely place a point on why
she left the vagrant house
its rocky burning pile
except these things in a passing phase of life must be
and rationale all flaming in the ghosting house
a rising in its carbon fury
embers journey upward sail the cloud blanched skies
and thunder rends pacific all relationships
could muster in their armies lightning thrusts
and age defeated falls a back
to trumpet blasts and muster

he lives on forever young and supple
even though his body long took embers with his soul
and floating in the gardens bid by glorious flowers bijou
he follows scents and parasols of cedar shade his lingering green
and in the air he builds a mansion
and in the air he walks its circled upward stair
and from the top most balcony he leaps
and clears the garden and the gates
and paradise and all the world
for no substantial thing
may foul the jump unto the promises of love
forever binding

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Gates

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