ghosts of our persuasion, no allegorical conclusion

[Kailashana]

If we could but hang around our coffins
like curious little misfits with a penchant
for hiding behind the curtain somewhere
over the rainbow
the prevailing myth of fantasy
would certainly be heard as the tree
falling in the forest no one hears

frankly speaking, the tree is dead.

Barks stripped of essential gentility, no passion
remains, no rage, no
beguiled forest to lose oneself in
nothing to be held back

the will-o'-the-wisp enters the shadowland,
head first, heart last

its beating now stilled, all anguish abated, the white oleander
now dying
its savage perfume permeating
the profane miracle of flesh & skin.

As long as memory remains, there will be someone to muse
about who comes and goes; there will be blood-red, ripe apples
and the pulp of our sins.

[dadio]

Fine poem & theme.