Replete in grief,
Caryatid, takes notes
under an effulgent moon.
The silver shadowed arena
shrouds hewn ruins:
this is the arc that failed,
this is the anabasis,
this the precipice of flight,
there – that tangled mess
of gray and earth?
That is the landing;
where peace pressed upon him.
This is the pale theater,
washed of color and time,
indelibly carved
with bent and broken blades,
chiseled in clay and
glazed with black blood.
August 21, 2005
May 19, 2021
WandeRoseD 