Beyond the Gates of Decay

Where the trees are younger than me And the winds whisper softly I stand in the wastelands of wasted years And moorish shrubs thirst for tears Forged ferric forests fortressed Forward flow from fjords Sands of time become the looking glass Under the heat of innumerable moments For scores of swords and the sun’s war-torn Many moons circle over the cities of random eyes Design my personal rats and spiders crawling forth Crown the pyrrhic kings and queens the lords of the flies After many deaths and decades of decadence Cemetery screams humor the unrepentant Where warts and worms fertilize The body farms (and soon the nymph’s woods) I yearn, you yearn, yet only one will be spurned Falling into the volcanic chasm to burn Every eagle knows the serpent-bladed grass After befriending and conspiring with the cactus Vivid yet vague, like paintings made from plagues Rage reaches relaxation, docility descending to dormancy Whilst golden sun-dried pyramids Shine and reflect the world’s lunacy Weak wet weeks welter once weekends wisp wild walruses, whence winds walk.