The New Year

Tonight's grieving,

slight and sheer as a lily,

will fail soon

As he toils,

corroding the year, carving in ice

a bleached phoenix. Each feather,

maps a prayer.

Waiting in a severe crater

like a sightless dewdrop.

Wait for it to rise

into a void,

in the blank spectrum of time.

Its muddy cruelty

consuming as honey

it blooms in it's own dishonesty.

I am on a cloud,

wading lightly,

through the silver dusk,

a tepid conglomerate,

skimming nirvana

and fucking it over.

My mankind,

cold granite,

the hues morphing, but

always separate.

It is shaken and molested,

like a barren egg,

by father's disappointment

splits into the new year.

The blood rush

eager as ever.

But the woman, yes,

she is sick and

frequent as a baby.

Her age, ambivalent.

And tersely

with pithless yearning

for remains, the end of it

like the revolt of a porous host,

who would sooner

burn it's own body.

Because sometimes the trick,

the cannon,

the lapse of caution,

when the sand has dwindled,

like a snuffed candle,

the act itself prevents the inevitable.

On god's behalf,

in the presence,

I will have you when I want you.