Hyperion Son

These veins have been hung upon
the clothesline, threadbare.
The needle-holes are visible through
the dirty, pale violet sheen.
They are scars of no answers and medical
theories are tumbleweed-tales.
Think things through–
test and track the path of least resistance.

The night is long, but no longer shows
the crimson of its alleyways.
Embers stationed, calculatingly,
so that they do not illuminate–
but will not suffer.
They are piping hot in the wind.
The luxuries of the sun are
easy to forget
when sleep is all that is known.

The falcon is not flying
Instead his throne becomes the perch
of electric beams of condensation-silks
and well…he is not tired.
He spreads his span and thinks
of all the lovely quills he will become.
Ink is only useful when wet.

These escapades of wicker make boredom;
golden honey air can swallow tongues,
but the mind has no invitation
to a glass half-full.
Sink with me, for I
will be a while.
This verse is for the meek.
Those ill-advised to conjure
thoughts inside their own head:
take solace here.
There is no method to our
madness–nor is there
weight upon our scales.

The embers feel the shadow of palms
and they shiver.
Once more they are supported by cowards.
The lamplighter will make no
turn tonight and leave his alley naked.
The figures huddle around the dimming embers:
Each its separate Helios.

These lungs are now the crutches,
weighted and cracking under duress.
Pollution is a welcome dessert.
There is no ice, but everything
is arctic in its heart.
The earth is mostly manacled,
a greedy hydra playing its part.

This hero is not undefeated–
where would be the tragedy in that?
The violet lies of the horizon
are not as deep as they are clustered.
Quality over quantity is not
an issue of the true.
The hero bleeds vermillion,
for all things lawful
must die a lighter hue.

-B.W. Gladney


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