Of late I have been brandished

Of late I have been brandished

by my own boxed shell,

Wickened and seared,

bathed in some light that

does not beckon-

yet never yields.

Of late I have been scuttled

Folded and foiled,

Bearing neither insignia nor medallion

polished and aged-

yet not valued as antiquity.

Of late I have been squeezed

by throes of thoughts disguised upon

absence and must prayer, whimpers

adrift upon a vessel in a basin filled.

Of late, albeit never too late

I have gazed into the emptiness that

beats within pulsing with life

ebbing in mud

Filled to the brim of fish, bread, and oils

yet no meal for the soul.

Never too late, never too late

these hands, this pain

these eyes and might-

a jewel encrusted sword

Least pen emblazoned and raised

Words yield no feast nor famine curtailed,

I but a servant where no chef dwells.

Of late, I starve at a buffet for kings

In the stead of nourishment and

continuance.

I do with these eyes bleed

for more and more within-let never out.

Never too late, never too late

Is it but a chorus in a solemn box

or orchestra of pitchforks and crows

Is it to meager a penance to purchase

Some chaise haven the breathes as my

the chest rises? Why then move on,

move through, When last a chance to sing

and move heaven that fold does break the song

and I too just move on, move on

Of late I cherish neither arms of comfort

nor words of supple rest

Of late, I neither feed nor flounder

just relate.

Of late, I but on a mission mired

Mistrust aligned feel no substrate

To this end- Never too late

Never too late.

As to earth, sea, or air

I curse the wind and

have it turned about on my own.

Is it but a crevice? Or vacant lot.

Filled by concrete and steel

or awash in the skin of these hills

Too climb both a mere chance to ponder

Where from this anguish abounds

Of late, I have seen the moon travel

and tides rise and fall

seen the mirror as it silver fogs

I have worn the armor, the silk,

and the resin

Yet never felt comfortable,

always felt revealed.

Never too late,

Never too late.

Sing no praise, nor dance in glee

Upon this back’s manic stead.

This march moves neither with or against

This stumble and stride or at best just a guess

Of late, I admonish

This victim who will relent.

 

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