She says it’s magic,
Calls it wond’rous,
this tragic madness crashing thund’rous,
loud as a blunderbuss between these ears,
where windmills tilt
to subdue these fears.
It sears, these tableaux tapered tampered torrents,
that profess their love but treat b’lovd abhorred,
was it just bor’d, bravado,
was it bastion stormed,
was it Bastille brought,
freedom pined for,
What was wrest’d,
was I wastrel,
what painted her unfaithful?
What did Make to make her so depraved,
that I should be the one to paint
Staves and bundles kindl’d, corps’d,
dressing mules as though t’were horses,
remorseless mistress marvel’d but unknown
that she sets afire the places she swears that she calls home.
Unaton’d, rodent, radiant regardless,
to break the heart so callously of a beaten, broken bard,
so these voiceless choices are a poisoned chorus of the foisted,
hoisted as a sacrifice
and marvelled at as a sight.
But the brightness!
it is peaking o’er horizon,
if one fights through resistance with persistence,
it is lighting!
Liars lay these hopes down at your feet
and break apart their teeth all while mired in their grief,
say it’s brief, but these fifteen years will argue loud,
that the lining on the cloud is but a fraction of the shroud,
that the stout and stalwart syndrome of these windmills tilted toward me
are a symptom of existence,
devoutly to be abhorred.