All Motion Toward Death

In fleeting instant
calamity calls with fierce stamps
and lights shine
on shocks of something dead.
A fragile glass sliver
for the pew;
each one of us feel the quarrel waves
and tick them off with candy bows,
only to be stunned from vibrations
when bulbs crash on
starched froth shores.

We bark from brimstone lips
but webs in our heart,
those tentacles which cradle Love
and peck at spite,
make nodding to death easy.
Peeled marble skin
shed quietly onto katana roads,
life eager always for long haired tombs.
Arteries stretched over sunglasses
gather balls of ash
like fishnet lanterns on red globes.

Knuckles aim for undertakers
while hymns stretch greying whiskers
as queues clutter stained windows,
hail to laments hanging on sober air.
Final songs on tinted coma
which toss mortal fish into grass fists,
and weave recent ghosts
into cold coils of ocean.
Settle into infinite arms
while poets stitch stone blessings
over quiet soil.

No ruffled agonies will upon
the eyelids lay,
and peace will honey itself
to liberated mysteries.
All highways beyond touch
lead into Sanctuary;
seldom where rats and prophets
congregate in sympathy,
always for thirst of pearl ballads.
Static pose draped over
blood thrones.

Grim dolls walk toward graves
without fanfare,
in silence over the underground pools.
Resurrection into butter lands
turn muscle into chamomile oil.
Fear no demon and seek no silver lane,
for our steps into eternity
shall uncover fantastic horizons,
and seeds of whatever drives
the soul of Man
will settle on gentle plains...

@Steven Francis poems 2009