Let it die.

Turn away from the resuscitations there

the dream warrants the saplings, she

in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands

retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as

I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if

swallowed in the vanity of torpor, a slumber to the tower of ice in the stars alive

fruitless, the wispy tree in the swath of a dream, the mercy of flowers will’t

be what is deserved, deserved? Laughter, no demurity—the hypnotic monad of please

as I tame the madness of my wound to quell unbridled blood of fallen tragedies, you

alight with tumult, the eyry never bled by the prey; are they disdained as they rise?

The naked arcs, the angles tumble and laugh, entwined in intimacy, we’ll

leave behind each other, eclipsed into the sewn spill of the tides, bare, that meet

the thief of the unconscious mind, pawing the torn fertile flowers that but a dream, the

pretense is forgotten like you. Wails. The shore screeches to let you die; company

in the widened casings of glass, words never uttered—didn’t matter as I fall below

the illimitable flow, the mourn of tenebrosity in the lines of decay and fruit then

slithering from a mother’s ebbing garden below, I

am a thread, an isthmus in the lithology of the rock as the waves repeat

to undressed cold—thankless in a war, beauty’s corpse effluxes, the

path blighted by ice, the tragedy and the hero, count

as in the leached fear of our world, being once forgotten; the darks oath, your

thrash in the blood of loss. Slaved masters

forgetting to reign upon the lonely ether in the echoes of melancholy known

back to me, starved in fallen delusion of mourn, seeing the blindness in munificence


Find me, find me in sorrow, in mindlessness; demented like the dying of the shore; it is

her waves that are littoral in an effigy of the psyche; mind of earth, let us be ample

in the undefined of the whimpering art of the sea—blinded in vacancy, warrant

that we hide in the bloodlust of sense, bearing the wounded heart that still bleeds, that

bleeds… Mother’s flowers on the graves idly gather, no—

they fall in the wind lonesome in the fragments of a cowered shore, just

an embryo to the dark, of the dark; the leaves of water and ice are a pretense

in the twisting of shadows, lining in disbelief of

what had died at our hands—this star of mine

bleeds into the sky as death waits by sea; for

we express to the echoes of forgiveness, burned in a dowry

of regret that soon enough envies mercy for oneself; will

it be the isolation that harvests these ashes as they are to be

spread and rippled throughout the dark blue crested to ocean’s cries, disallowed.


A/N: Another Golden Shovel poem. A Golden Shovel poem is where you take lines from another poem of your choice and use each word from those lines as the final word for each verse. Here are the lines I used from Robert Browning’s poem, My Last Duchess:

“There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed…”

I’m not entirely certain with the outcome of my poem. I think I may rework it in the future as it may seem muddling in some lines, but I wanted to share it nonetheless.


24 Comments on “Let it die.

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