Twenty-seven
whether by chance or by a divine intervention,
when darkness comes and gouges the eyes
and bloodies the nose of a mid-june sun
comfortable clothes are ripped from beautiful savants
replaced by their silk and silvery-foil counterparts
the garden thrives in order and in sun
but thirsts for torment and chaos in equal share
whether culled by means of maps and legends
or the madness of genius informed by fortunate circumstance
wanderers find barriers of barbed wire and electrified walls of sound
but where fixed firmaments are encountered,
barriers that would otherwise serve simply as obstacles
now become points for an elegant departure
when those possessing extrasensory brilliance and insight
a higher form of sense, light, and being
while lesser lights fail to discern the sun through the haze
in the heat and glare of a greater fire
when the first petals of the flower flares
then begins to curl, even while others yet emerge,
foreshadow, the first sniff of decay
some flowers slowly atrophy, still clinging to the ideal of beauty
all the while falling, falling further away
while others simply burst into flame
when darkness comes and gouges the eyes, bloodies the nose
and the thirst for cruelty and torment will not sate
a line here or there, but never time enough for a true wrinkle
if six was nine, the end would be at twenty-seven
dark muse 