Oh what heavy-handed justice might you pass to your kin?
The ship of what may have been in
has passed on into the night:
Where this, the fevered fights of our dreamscapes
take hold and heart
to bear righteousness for our part in the play of our escapes...
Makes free the mind tied up in the twine of yesteryeared thought-
Or asks our feeble although nimble fingers
to extract a feather for the cap of another.
What sister, what brother,
what lover of thought might grasp at the strings
of her own puppeteer with the sneer of a knower-
a kiss blower dangling in the trees-
watching the black widow spin webs
through the pane of the window we know as mirror,
denouncing the terror announced earlier that dawn.
When we cross the magic of our imagined lives with the thread of the living past
or the dead,
we tread, we plod
through many-angled halls to the dormant part of dreaming
to the doormat we become
if we choose, and we do,
to be slaves to memory.
Slaves to those haunts and spectres in the outlying
dumb green fields of youth-
there lies the both, the dead, and the truth.
