ManicWorld Magazine

I hear murmurs in the mist, distant sirens throw their fiery halos outward in a desperate clangor,
voices of my solitary recollections threaten the living moment with a voluble liquidity, just as
tidal arms clap the shore, I’m struck by the assembly of absences, rogues galleries swept from
their posts by storm,

Shall I hold on as the sky inverts again in silent revolution, or fall upward toward these
synchronous gates in their blazing elegies, and will you hold for me a place beside the architect
of these wondrous dimensions, if you and I are noticed in the annals of a courageous run about
this labyrinth, slowing inevitably in the powder of the drifts,

Decaying light empire, drawing string to cheek each day for us to propel this wayward galaxy
into its neighbors, by what momentous hubris have we called this root and tree our timeless
gravity, when all along there was a webwork of interstitial forces making known their slow will,
compass spinning on your curving shoulder.