What distance does,
Prudence knows not of.
Nor feeling, nor lip, nor pain,
That embalm a tender grain,
Can predict the deflective arc
That razes with a deviant spark,
Hephaestus' indiscriminate law
In a fervent coup d'état.

*******************************

Intensity enflames the silent sore,
That wanes with our flighty orb,
To conceive a patina that imbues,
And cries out from over use.
More polished than the desert sand,
Gravid with the future's plan,
Yet helplessly effete,
I lie here incomplete.

04/04/2001

Posted on 04/24/2003
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