I odyssey through mirk’s style of mind:
in ambit’s endless venture.
To trust that perseverance blind:
find ways, to guide, my restless nature.
What new enigma, to unfold,
in corners of my sorrow
when, all before my touch were gold,
and I, too proud to stoop or borrow.
What fool was I to trust in lies:
or touch its brief encounter?
To, search beyond such barter’s prize
in joie de vivre and seria’s opera.
No more, to see a sanguine art
aver, ascendant reach:
A truth, at last, its moment start
as charnel bones: sensoria bleach.
For let past pyrrhic laugher's rage,
through halls of their last making.
Where, distich world gave all a stage,
from which: word’s arsis stood there railing.
To where time sees no gifts bestow:
in promise or promotion.
Our worth assayed in gaudies trow;
Or deaths, own dead of Net’s ereption.
Mor.
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Ron.
'Charnel Poet of Truth' ... a paradox?
A living poet channeling the aesthesias of dead poets?
Charnel - noun: A vault or building where corpses and bones are deposited. Adjective: gruesomely indicative of death or the dead. The choices of words and gist indicate (to me) the writers preoccupation with a certain genre of the classics, and an on-going desire to keep a certain kind of phraseology alive that modernity has rendered mostly moot or irrelevant.
Certainly an interesting construct, Scotsman, one articulated esthetically, scripted meticulously, and impossible to absorb in one reading. Incidentally, the subtext is rich (IMO) and reveals, to me, an image of a writer, on in years, suffering physically, finicky in a good way, and still very passionate about what he considers the purity of earlier poetic endeavor before the internet.
Peace & continued inspiration ...