PATHOLOGY OF NOWHERE

They’re blowing, these winds of rage,

and heroes fall through chance,

some, into miasmas of trance

where kings in castles of sand compose

traumatic spells and scenery of hell.

Yes, on this sacred hill, we know this dread,

that bitter pill of tyrants drunk on light

in a lunatic unfolding of flags, and emblems of pain

Auden knew, we must suffer them again,

It’s the cycle found in the slain.

And here, Elijah crushed Baal’s fame

as purer rain whips human flesh

with a sharp cut of stillness.

No victories, not righteous, not fair

just, natural and unweathered.

As Time.

Waits still,

at the center of the clock

heart beating for us all

a universal rhythm of care.