Thee is to bind all our rhyming pars
whilst Centaurus arrow seals aeon’s heart;
meld thy ash with golden tunes of new lights
to fill void with dirge for us being apart.
The crisp winter night cracks its edge in sighs
and gapes at the gray phantom mask omen
of evergreen Golden Bough wail cries
sprouting shadow across North rod gnomon.
Split moon spills adagio snow over lute
whereas era is stint rift in sand-jar;
For there is no past; presence is the root
Of our all lore, whilst feign faints in yore;
Where art thou when nigh is end of brass times–
Canst midair script save love pith from lust flames.
Final revisions: 12/22/2012