Saturday, April 04, 2015


When I enter the room
Dread is hanging from my eyes
And the alchemist is in repose

The window behind his throne
Shows no sign of gold or silver in the sky
Just grey tufts heavy and wet like rock

And spring is to be a time of design
Buds to be born and bring
A phenomenal hope as rich as the colors

But I did not come to think on such things
I came having chosen which souls to offer
And then run before I hear them melt away

I have chosen her and him and the urn
I have basked in the memories of our meetings
And now must pass them through a window for scrap

He reads their weight and then the calculations
But in all that this Hermeticism grants him to see
He cannot see the way their hearts spring of life

Cannot hear her babel and ting on my wrist when shaken
Cannot feel his soft and sleeping weight on my finger
Cannot smell the sweet musk from its open lips

A silver urn to love the ash it holds
A rotund band with beads like brothers
A cuff of coils bent as beautiful as water

Souls sold for scrap, they will soon be melted away
And the hungry necessity of my pocket is fed with $20
But how harrowing like winter this will always feel

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