East Of The Wall Beasteater
Built on high, the scaffold’s walls are hinged to the
fold. The step slopes downward for none. Their aims ran
steep. So where, then, must you have tryst? A crane of
the neck- your crooked eyes rose to rest where the loft
hung.
The weight you’ve sweat here will not lighten your load.
It gnaws on fragments of your tired soul. Your line: an
arc for progress. Your sky: a roof. Your gate is closed.
The way for you is plowed. The cart you pull is culled
from your bones.
In darkness ashes coat your lungs. In silence there is
only defeat. Wisdom to you now is but a burden. The
breeze that broke you came from your throat.
No ire can keep burning. No wrath is wrought by the
lowly. A slow step and you’ve only to wait until, claws
bent, mind fogging, the next wind will topple you wholly.
Cold mire, deep sopping… climb up and pull your load.
The waves all broke, and sovereigns tend the falls. The
tide broke, a cloven splash, and sovereigns tend the
falls as if rising again and again to be chopped at the
knees was a gift.
The impetus will fade with dusk. You sorrel nag, your
coat is blood and rust.
