Poetry. Written 28/04/2012.

Look your last on the evergreen hours;
everything will alter. The lover's blush to stone, perhaps,
the child's smile to murder.
Veiled in honest ivory, we walk unto the slaughter.
Standing at the moment where
the tacit will unravel
(and the abyss will be built, perhaps, the castle will be shattered) and
there is no bridge to your laughter
and no clashing cries of battle.
The world is a dusty demon, risen to
hate, and hurt, and hinder-
with a dangerous truth in its armoury, made
to tear an oak to splinters.
Look your last on the unchanging sun;
you cannot help but falter.
The lover's eyes to fury, then. The child's faith to water.

What happened to the blaze
that lit the crevasse of the chasm?
What happened to the glorious days
of green and golden languor?
His eyes, now, hold no promise of soft kisses
among the lilacs-
and his violet eyes are violent,
and his temper quick to anger.
Your sword is simple yesterday,
too sweet to unremember;
and, though you will not conquer this,
you earn no pride in surrender.
Put down your childish wonder, then-
look now your last, at what's known.
look, perhaps, to the battle ahead,
for despite your fury, your stone,

the shuddering, creeping tremors of
this truth will leave you bleeding:
that after the battle is life (in this darkness); and that
love, like all else, is fleeting.