 The Countess of Flatbroke's Treasury of Poems |
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The Countess of Flatbroke's Treasury of Poems |
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| Paul, Only Failed The dawn sky. Endless visibility meshing with the autumn breeze. My puckered soul ponders the protective shield noted by the martyr. Indispensable to the idealistic Ephesian, its shiny un-tested-ness transformed. My Kevlar vest, closely worn but slowly pierced. Not by a bullet but a burrowing thought, like cud-zoo in my untended garden. The creeping power of time and determination. Cracking through the chilled chrysalis, a hair shirt emerges. Unwieldy and uncomfortable, to restore the luster by lice and burrs. Only to become my straight jacket, like hot wax pooling snugly around a lonely flame. As darkness closes and the cold deepens, my aphasic light suffocates. Flickering its last, shadows wince and turn away, weeping while the candle burns out bound and unshielded. I put my hands in my pockets and walk home, mourning the dawn. © Robert G. Mooney |
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