Wreckage

STILL afloat: persevering at each shore

That may seem, would I comply,

To render me ensconced... the voyage to draw

Beyond the compass,

And what is more its buoyancy to sustain,

While dashing billows the old sails try

Life's vigil to conclude with life's refrain-

The calm before the storm.

Untimely night.

The pond'rous fetters of the storm

Cling when untethered

Upon the floor they smite.

Thus given vent sways the storm in revelry

And brazen mockery.

Why plunge into a wat'ry grave

And wreck upon sea's edge

Never to reach for which I crave

And my very soul might pledge?

Against the waves the vessel was matched

And intermin'bly, when overcome's the breach,

From high upon the breakers launched and dispatched

Until at the craggy beach,

Where shattered rest the carcass,

Now subject to decay,

And scattered tangly slivers of wood,

Bound to rot away.

What holds is but of brittle bone,

A canopy of curved boughs,

Neither grave nor engraved stone,

In oblivion to drowse.

Lest of the cliff the mere base be the end,

Do I scale the precipice

Without wings which larks from ether suspend

While gapes below the deep abyss.

But vertigo alone,

Though precarious th'ascent remains aloft,

Cannot tip the balance nor respite prompt

Nor win the last moan,

But comes another, the tone still soft.

Then trees recede and lend me view,

A glade remote, briars piercing through

A mossy couch a singing lady's made,

Until again they cast their shades.

So did thoughts: suggest to me still

The quiet of a dark repose

And at the same time inspire will

The primrose path to oppose.

Either way I will proceed.

Why slacken a sluggish pace,

When toil may very relief concede

I can well-nigh embrace?

Since here is not where I can rest assured

That to rest my lay be laid,

Since proximity has ardour restored,

What can me dissuade?

But, should I leap at the wall?

The timeless cauldron gape I saw,

The void in which to drown my cares

And stifle my but hoarse-worn call,

When yet again I wash ashore.

"Dissemble not

The winces stirred by wry convulsions:

Recuperation's near.

"Wretched convalescent,

Stagnant are the ancient waters:

Redemption's here".

Of what green's that sheet of moss

With which my bed she drapes?

Nothing more but the amb'guity

Which consuming decay or growth shapes,

A sheet with which to smother me,

Makes me argue the self-imposed toss.

Have I thus wrought a shift of aim?

Non sequitur.

What mysteries does she hold, or hold

Divulged, but me against my will?

How can beauty that's static and cold

Yet lose itself, and lose me still

For I am resolute?

"Like a wolf in sheep's clothing,

Illness assumes

Recovery's guise.

"Is even willingness no

Salutary elixir?

Beyond resilience your headstrong

Fever carries on".

No and even so yes

This selfsame state, once the port

Now the sojourn, one of call,

The height has crumbled

Or have I in this:

Disharmony

Bent and snapped the tight-stringed neck

As to the heart,

When no string can life uphold,

Numb and stale within a wreck.

The question dawns upon me,

Whether the encounter I might have created

As such without authority

Or I was the Proteus.

Still afloat: the isle receding

Into the distance, as level upon level was closed

In mists the hindsight impeding,

The tide of aurora has another day posed.