Post by mor on Oct 31, 2009 2:31:43 GMT -8
Metaphoric Stepping-Stones -An Exercise in Post Modern Poetry -
Unexpectedly, an enigmatic smile, floats its ambiance, across a lesser forded stream. Was it, perhaps desires own purpose fit? Perchance, a promise, by which perseity befriends need’s lesser plan; a pisaller, whereby, in privier placement’s scheme, time reck-reined by bridles-wise ruelle, a heart’s rybat of immew word recast; immured by brattice bonded wrath. That which by self- wrought trust a pattern’s path, gives it a gesture’s gee, to which, by signals right led thought, advanced sighs, to such a smiled wave it sees, but yet by mood’s own purpose plays, denies all, but calls to life, from its own fractious maze, a minded sense of littered lies. Why then, it’s own, much feigned, and overly wrought surprise.
For should such toned voice intenerate by changes chance made choice, awake long lain, an abettor; solicitation’s avocation from life’s tired old dusting days, which have been they of late, a detinue, free, from the occident of night, by morns own-minded ways these metathetic powers; metiers its pertinacious hours, and time’s ne’er-slumbrous fate. To see its somnambulation a stepped agate, as if by progression a further thought it hesitates to step beyond that creaking gate.
Whereby, such winnowed truths, are true ascian wiles, they more impalpable than such simple rathe and styles, though to summate perhaps be less than palimpsests in denial, or desirous too, a lesser sense of trust, an unsure trial; imagism a caricature recherché, it immured, denies a nature self-assured. As acrasia an excuse toward an acquittance aisle; minded by all multi myth, its more than careful guile; word’s whisper. Which simpleness, in all its outward sense, those safer stepping-stones engraved by tense, whose memories, a horizontal masque of care compile, to hide from passing stares that seem so endlessly set to rest awhile.
Yet by semblance fair, least ways, you are much more than fleshed bone. Processes, by which seemly all, we are at best still prone. As from your medley of words, do chance careless circumstance, sensed, a romance of slab placed stones, that wilful ways, intone to pleasure’s wraith of purposed plays and platitudes own dull mimetic rested place alone. Where poetic placers’ melic thoughts merge their long ecstasy, from which one single step of progress brought, mind lures, it me; such are the sensitivities lief bring. Whereby a bid of truth and fate, such averaging, demands that near-perfect step is ours, postnuptial end-to-end commands, placement, of its, all too, perfect hours.
For yet, that fatal slip, from which mind’s moss layered stone lost grip, to plunge desire into a ridicule of sense, where all the gay abandon did, grave suddenness, bedraggle so the wretched plan.
Whereon, a rising vadose does pour, upon cares, upturned vail of man, a cade’s measure short, of all the tricks that Dryden’s vole it span, whilst fate does by relentless reasons, plays so, the finest cards, it can..
Mor.
