nostalgia

dressed in a coat of scarlet concept
stressed in that deliberately combative manner
you channel rivers of the captured heart
into argument and envy this need for revenge,
a carnivore's intrinsic lust all this
twisted into threads to hem the apron
you would wear this day

the universe promises an end
not one you'll see of course
it isn't anything you could apprehend
nor need you fear its carrion horse

we all walk the stone steps of sanctuary
remembering our mother's sanctuary heart
the conflict's roots born from that initial act
someone's apparent come within her womb

truth is, we're all bastards now
we drag and dispose our desires
and our woes we chuck our facile reactions
into the roses and pick and choose
the words we long for most

everything is magnified
by these frozen choices the self's
remarkable journey away from fact
into the lariat swamp of memory
where we shirk the truthful pain
though chained by guilt,
and its awful recognition

and is there charity in the realm?
is death's specific justice that of truth?
can Calliope's freakish song remark
the boy hiding in the reeds?
these questions magnify this heart's suspicions
chambered now for a hidden truce this piece
in that auricle this lie in that ventricle
this memory kept a secret, not a ruse