Aporia Impasse III

A Poem

Aporia Impasse III

An agonizing text is bound
In the midnight flesh of a long lost cause,
And ceremonies in moonlight shan’t ope
A grimoire stained with tears of blood.
And from the sea, a beast arises,
Its heads nine in number,
Its dragon body rotten, decayed,
Flooded with bitter waters pouring from its wounds;
The stench of stagnant slough has overwhelmed
The kings of earth.

Like wings of a white owl,
The snow alights in her raven tress.
Her emerald eye—it glistens,
Bejeweled, bewitched, adorned, entranced;
As like the tawny hue of dusk
Is a sharp pain before the night.
Her ember eye draws me to her deathly lips,
Body upon body in the frost’s embrace,
Buried in winter’s shawl by a polar scythe,
Both dust to dust, in ice-trapped heat.

When fingers bleed from paper cuts,
Her voice seeps out the bloody ruts.

---