The march

One beside himself;
hand over fist,
disgorging the shrapnel
to bestrew his perditious path

He tries in vane to tame
the memory-go-round;
the golden ring long begone,
yet his mind it shackles still

There’s infinity in every footfall,
of his never-ending journey;
timelessness preempts salvation,
with a deafness of damnable knells

The solemn march of a good soldier,
forging into the beknownst unknown,
whilst forgotten ivory towers
tumble like knucklebones in his wake

He forever lacks elocution,
only inexpressible idyllic dogma;
as Providence bites her tongue,
behind an opalescent sneer

A mantra for the madman,
the grind of tread beneath his boot;
it’s with a privation of forgiveness,
he murmurs his heart’s lament

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Published by a.d.matthias

no w here

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