Wednesday, November 21, 2012

The Voice

The voice came when nature quails,
when fall's decay-laced knellings blow,
the seething welkin overhead,
the churning sea below.

I stood upon a moss-strewn bridge.
It whispered as through barren bough,
tempting me, Ulysses staring
down a tide-worn prow.

The words that faint susurrus slurred
were teeth transfixing lonesome woe,
the seething welkin overhead,
the churning sea below.

God saw fit to fill his pillared courts
with those you're missing now.
The fall that fed them to the depths
Heaven did allow.

The son and daughter pale as sidhe,
the wife those gnashing currents stow,
with seething welkin overhead,
in the churning sea below…

Down, down sunk my watery gaze,
while whispers spun around my brow
the who and why of my despair,
that all-consuming how.

As pillaged as these leafless bones,
what more remains for me to know
but seething welkin overhead
and churning sea below?

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