Monday, December 01, 2008

The Implied

The high priest, drenched, robe deep in anguish,
“The bell…!” curls over his lips as a billowing fog.
On paper, his clutch slowly weans the ink from
Its scribe leaving blurry wrinkles in stead.

Frost had congregated on the landscape like dust
On a forgotten time.
  Does his breath rasp and
The bell toll? The moldy scrape of his soles
Against the cold, dampening stone steps, are they?

What a history of heathens!
  Silent as fresh snow-
These angels falling heaven sent.
 Their voices, as
Soft as human minds, fall sweetly into the gaps of
Books, and their noble yet distant bindings.

In what direction shall I bow in the gentle bloom
Of spring? When all but the dust has returned and
The trills of the blackbirds deceitful calls has well
Hidden the echoes of the Scrolls, where then?

Let the piercing harp once more sing high! Punish
The Avians for their false cries, their light frolic.
May their feathers mold; only then will their spirits
Know the True Severity lest higher they fly. 

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