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BURNT HOURS OF RUIN





How much ruin in the world are we willing to tolerate;

Tankards of milk are spilt to raise prices; black opts push

The day into night with dark cabbages occulting the moon.



Humming birds spend hours hovering to needle nose a blossom;

While humans suckle on a thousand nights of rabble and ruin; it

Makes us poets and painters sad to chronicle these dark cabbages.



During festive holidays we have to fight the agent of disappointment

Commemorating the fallen who allowed us to have such a day of rest;

Funerary roses floating in a bowl of tears quiver as we do over ruin.



Even the respite of our head on a pillow hides an open knife ready to

Carve up our peace into shreds; every hour of peaceful rest is burnt by

Disquiet from the ancient angst of the clash of Titans brought to ruin.



Our early ruin was caused by an over reach for some forbidden fruit;

Not for lack of perspicuity but by the anger from an injunction that

We had to restrain ourselves; we didn’t understand such brinkmanship.



It seems as though humanity must spend hours in prayer and supplication

Propitiating the gods for every burnt hour we spend decimating life;

Let us be honest with each other; how many dead burnt hours do we have?