Stark Raving Sanity

A Wing from Grace
by Marc Awodey


Beside stone cenotaphs ashes melt
Nothing aloft is beheld
or felt in slivers of peace
the sleeping dwell returned
to lands where unborn mummers dwelt.
Nothing aloft is seen or felt.
Know you then the sword of grief
returned to lands where unborn
mummers dwelt.
Nil is met by disbelief.
Know you then the sword of grief
and though you had a gererous
hand nil is met by disbelief.
In darkness the beggar becomes a thief.
And though you dwell returned
to lands where unborn mummers
dwelt nothing aloft is seen or felt.
Know you then the sword of grief,
a stony face and a generous hand
in slivers of peace
where the sleeping dwell as in darkness
the beggar becomes a thief.
Beside stone cenotaphs ashes melt.
You had a generous hand, nil
was met by disbelef. In darkness
the beggar becomes a thief.
Though processing ghosts found
a way home by themselves, Anubis
or other myths into caverns of onyx
and anthracite, a generous hand
in slivers of peace allows
the downfall of living sleep.
In darkness the beggar becomes
a thief beside stone cenotaphs
as ashes melt. They witnessed
with expansive eyes;
in cradle of spring
yellow shoots arose,
twixt summer and spring
where woven nests as processing
ghosts found a way home by themselves,
Anubis of other myths
into caverns of oonyx and anthracite.
In summer a clorophyll canopy closed
mid summer and autumn warm water
condensed into caverns of onyx and
anthracite to witness with
expansive eyes;
in cradle of spring yellow shoots
arose, twixt summer
were woven nests.
On faces that stand before shadows
fall, lanterns for the dead raise
without light almost undecipherable
words and years.
In summer a chlorophyll canopy
closed, mid summer and autumn warm
water condensed
into caverns of onyx and anthracite.
In summer a clorophyll canopy
closed to conceal villages of old
dialect, and silent yards measuring
ruinous night on faces that stand
before shadows fall.
Lanterns for the dead raise
withough light almost undecipherable
words and years, and places
where neighbors never more speak.
Lanterns for the dead raise
without light fences protecting
amnesia.
In summer a clorophyll canopy
closed to conceal
villages of old dialect.
On silent yards measuring ruinous
night autumn leaves fell
like a wing from grace to mingle
with newspaper, books, and grass
in silent yards measuring ruinous
night and places where neighbors
may never more speak.
Lanterns for the dead raise
without light fences protecting
amnesia.
Summer beyond summer is a vivid
curse. In winter's mean charge
the whole world froze, in autumn
leaves fell like a wing from grace.
Autumn leaves fell like a wing
from grace to mingle with newspaper,
books, and grass in silent yards
measuring ruinouns night.
Of cradle of spring
yellow shoots arose,
in winter's mean charge
the whole world froze
while in seasons
of humble senselessness
processing ghosts found a way home.
Summer beyond summer is a vivid
curse. In winter's mean charge
the whole wold froze, in autumn
leaves fell like a wing from grace.
Let us now process in silent rows
with faces grooved into ceramic
masks. Etched in a timeworn
intaglio on cradle of spring yellow
shoots arose, in winter's mean charge
the whole wold froze,
while in seasons of humble
senselessness
processing ghosts found a way home.
In a the U of a grand piano
beneath tin armed clock martinets
manque figurines pursue
pirouettes.
Let us proceed in silent rows
with faces grooved into ceramic
masks etched in a timeworn
intaglio on a few portions of age
as clockwork ticks flourish
to become as long as felted hammer
heads to strike the harp
of an ebony U of grand piano.
Beneath tin armed clock martinets
manque figurines pursue pirouettes
etched in a timeworn intaglio
as dotted paper roll voices on
a few portions of age to sing
while clockwork ticks and tocks flourish
to become as long as the felted hammer
heads manipulated to strike the harp.
Eyes fall on the face of ambition
ill-suited to untangle waht is real
from who is not.
Beside an ebonized grand piano
etched inside a timeworn intaglio
are the dotted paper roll voices
of clockwork ticks and tocks that grow
beneath tin martinets
wearing faces grooved into masks;
on the checkered floors of unconscious
lands were unborn mummers once
dwelt.
Nil is met by disbelief.
Know you then the sword of grief.
Over dusty schrolls of brittle
ragtime rhapsodies
let us process in silent rows
to watch blue oxidation unfold.
Besides stone cenotaphs ashes melt,
nothing aloft is seen or felt.
In slivers of peace the sleeping
dwell unworldly, unnamed
where unborn mummers once dwelt.


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