Prometheus on the Roadside
The thorn in my side grows longer,
its burning fury ever stronger,
aching without time's release,
aching for the ache to cease.
In some dark law my flesh is caught;
what I would do, I do not
from a pain and ache that do not cease,
the pain and ache for last release.
I delight in the glorious breath,
but my heart is seized by the rigors of death,
seized by a pain that will never cease,
an ache that yearns for the soul's release.
Mercy's my madness; it sets me right,
but I am chained by the dark of night
in a chain no time can ever release,
in an ache that longs, never to cease.
The thorn in my side grows longer;
death is but a dream;
time is but a stranger
in a river of what seems.
A cathedral hewn of a single stone
holds a golden cross and an ancient throne
where the glory sat above the cherubim
in the holiest holy.
The Geez prayers of an ancient rite
softly rise into velvet night
and Ezana's children pray by the wall
of the holiest holy.
I dreamed of Adsum where angels rest
on every tabot and stars are guest
at revels of hope and undying light
near the holiest holy.
Maryam Ts'iyon walks a path alone
as the cherubim that make the throne
for the Highest High and His glorious gift,
the holiest of all holies.
And something that's not quite a poem draft, but just a lark:
The blurb for this poem is quite true;
it sort of gets inside of you
with its vision of life and a whiff of types
that fulfill the prophecies of the hype.
And yes, 'tis true, beneath the sun,
that the author is a new John Donne
or Milton; but to be truly fair,
only Dante can compare
to his biting wit and his turning line
and his perfect rhythm and his flawless rhyme.
Yes, the hype is every bit true;
and I have a poem to sell to you.