Billows of cold burn my skin, a barrier
Against the heat
Where dewy elements play at war and defeat.
These skirts have seen the wasteland,
Made a home on me,
Death-soaked and faded, worn nakedly
I am no emperor. But hark! I could be
Alone complete control
Hailed into cosmic being—
One upon the grains of sand
To become the five-hundred
Merging indistinguishable; a mass of band.
The never-all of nothing-something
Fears no blazing winter
Or the rise and fall of seeing, coming, taking,
Feeling, both. Fueled by the fire frozen river
Seethes a magma that merely waits
To point the fasces ever westward at the bloodlet gates.
Rescind The Order!
Lest the fallen return to command
Scattered troops with infinite number of groping astral hands
Impervious to temperance
Eke, totalitarian mind!
Temperatura will not stop what tempus cannot find.
Ripped are the wearied bodies
and the tired clothes
and the worn wind
and the fading coughing
of life spent in a sinner’s lungs
or death drained
from a baby’s
hands.
