The Complications of this Tragedy, beget a trail of tears. God's angel suffers in perfect armor upon the Lion's pelt, as a solemn hateful misanthropist plots the destiny of the flesh. I tried to whisper in his ear, the infant rogue, impersonating Rimbaud. But my grace had fallen, rolling in the sticky embers of hell. And it is here, in the black chamber of my dry unflinching eye. That I seize conceptual radiance, in the hallucinatory light, the traffic of the deadly Muse slowly becomes the concentration of half truths. The Vision of a word, a deed, invokes the storm. The hand, a means to pry the barbed fork, and calmly seize the melting hour, has no discovery greater than this knowledge that circumvents no law. I saw in the cloud this cloven master, grinding mortar to fill your curse, and I saw you likewise try to dissolve the caustic belly of its portents. Let it be known that I am deeply thankful for this and your intimation of unquieted respect, no matter how maddening. And, that this spiders kiss instills an unparalleled fear that threatens all mortal precepts of fragile wisdom. I gently bow in remittance that this station holds no stone nor drowns in burning clouds and in boiling seas; that this precious bird, which sees through trees and sings, is no more. Such is the winter of this melancholic charge.
~S~