They’re blowing, these winds of rage,
and heroes fall through chance,
some, into miasmas of trance…
where kings in castles of sand compose
traumatic spells and scenery of hell.
Yes, on this sacred bill, we know this dread,
that bitter pill of tyrants drunk on light
in lunatic funerals of flags,
and weddings of shame,
Auden knew, we must suffer it again,
It’s the cycle found in the slain.
And here, Elijah took Baal’s fame
as purer rain whipped flesh
with sharp cuts of stillness.
No victories, not righteous, not fair,
just, natural and all-weathered.
As Time.
Waits still,
at the center of the clock
heart beating for us all,
a universal rhythm of care.
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