“Stealing his swift-footed way
among the rubble and desecration
unleashed by "the blood-dimmed tide,"
The ball returns, at best
as unobserved as Telemachus,
well-hidden behind his own ancestral
maps of disenchantment:
A weary refusal to bear witness.
I have no wind left for winged words.
For the falcon has flown already
numerous star-crossed messages
from one end of the bridge to the other,
until only a medieval spectre loomed
between time and space, a yawning gap
now festering like an abscessed tooth.
Match poem
/by Brutal Berserker”
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among the rubble and desecration
unleashed by "the blood-dimmed tide,"
The ball returns, at best
as unobserved as Telemachus,
well-hidden behind his own ancestral
maps of disenchantment:
A weary refusal to bear witness.
I have no wind left for winged words.
For the falcon has flown already
numerous star-crossed messages
from one end of the bridge to the other,
until only a medieval spectre loomed
between time and space, a yawning gap
now festering like an abscessed tooth.
Match poem
/by Brutal Berserker”