To wish for impossible islands
on stars that don't exist until they burn out
(their debris falling for a million years upon one last mistake)
is a salt-laden curse
The discs don't balance, nor make good juggling tools
Borrowing this to pay that always gets it going again
But a hermit sits opposite to stare, vacantly and directly
as a man's sword swings dangerously close to the head of his white horse
He is reaching for fallen rei(g)ns
Our Lilith looks on in lustful hope;
for haemorrhage spilled into cups at her feet
(a stave of distraction eternally clasped within dish-water hands)
The dappled nags head is now muddied with the earth
and the threat of blood drips, transparently
from the sinews of its stiff neck
The choices of lovers? To rescue the maiden, or not
The dragon rises and subsides again and again
Heroics and medals are on a chaotic loop
and false nourishment will fool him no more
Dragons have always existed
Fold time, like the paper you're writing on
and you'll see
The pending blade locks against the wand; branches are spliced
Stalemate, delay - a retreat and then some
I've no patience for temperance
I am not a juggler of coins and potential flames
and absence marks my soul - red paint
The sword has finally pierced the jugular of our brave steed
The stave becomes three in a twirling parade of bravado
This is what you could have won:
a new neck!
depth as an alternative
maybe?
I should write all this down someday
when I find adequately calibrated scales
SRWB 2010
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