see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour."
-by William Blake, Auguries of Innocence.
William Blake fingering the edge of Revolution
has taught himself to meander past
the foggy machicolations of London; although
in his life, he only performed that
parlor trick once;
every other night he
dreamt in his own bed, traveling
only as far as his boot heels might
take him. Salivating
long enough to taste the acrid husks
of the poetry plucking the strings of
labyrinth of pen and ink.
though he fought conformity
with leather teeth, he only left London
once in his life.
Fingering Revolutions like
a book; turning the thick, water-marked
edges of France like a sojourn; then
Americana, as though it were the finest
until it becomes a seed within him. A
root, heavy from milky flames licking
the dividers of conformity;
not to give him a name, he has none.
Attempt not to captivate him, his
inclinations are as wild as the prophecy of
no one reads, and
Catherine is grayish-green
shivering inside his palm; he says:
Do you pity me? And his voice falls,
although her smile widens like
an iron gate, parted like the lip of a sigh, and
nodding her head, he
echoes: Then I love you. Later he
taught her to read and write.
he etched The Lovers Whirlwind
he discovered the curve disaster shapes
the face with; how a soulmate will
melt into the clouds of hell with you
because all else is forbidden,
he worked until he died;
hollowing his wife's face
with poverty, he sung verses
burial mound lost, tombs rotted
away with time, the lime carted away
as scrap to manicurize the lawn.
Later, a plaque
Near by lie the remains of the poet-painter William Blake
even in death
you cannot place
a/n: written for the July Writing Contest, via The Review Game