Tabula rassa in my hands –
a new bloom of mine to tether –
with blasting ink on it to write
and then to toss the bloody feather.
For it is buzzing in the frost.
‘Tis humming now through the grapevine
while I’m waiting for yet a word
to burrow in my empty mind.
‘Tis buzzing, I say, with its might,
its all, the whole, somewhere in me.
‘Tis defining the shimmering
light ashore that my eyes can’t see.
My hands were pleading to the sky.
The sky replied in sovereign –
as he showered into my eyes
the golden stardust of his reign –
that no will of man shall ever
stand tall enough from pride to find,
the key, if not fallen at his
feet, to the keyhole of his mind.
‘Twas buzzing but started sizzling,
like in panic now, in its flare
it abandoned me as I turned
into dripping sorrow and mare.