July 5, 2013

Imageby L. Swain19 Jul 2013

Hope’s the substance that my chubby heart gleams,
The drowsy cloud which palls such vaunting light;
Darkness is th' chest of my comfort’s dream—
Love, I'd rather trust the honest night—
Hope’s the quiet marks beneath your finger’s graze,
My skin sleeps under the slow plowing team,
Hope’s the darkness fickle moment betrays,
I'm comfortable where light my eyes can't deem—
Every moment is at odds against hope,
Like night in night a deeper dark confined,
Hope blindfolds the droopy eyes I mope,
Moment's boundaries are from knot t’ knot defined—
The thought that I'd hold you fluffs pale moment,
Mak’ng the shy nimbus ruminate on light,
So then in thinking of holding I am sent
From unfitted morrow to such surfeit night—
Circuit the cyclone of adoration,
The conscience is set aboard your good will,
From bent ends I make sturdy destination,
By th’ point of pen spike, murky evil’s killed—
Is evil the fashion of shadow’s board?
Then would good be the tyrant will of light?
Evil then a Trojan face could afford,
But haughty justice shouldn’t get such a right?
Evil then is apart from the day and dark
For either of the two may sin possess:
In form of sounding hypocrisies they hark,
In whispers of adulteries they mess;
Hope the unembittered night may ally,
Caped on the stride an’ strut of paleface morrow,
See tonight and the punished hoards of "why",
My heel is atop the hounds of sorrow—
That I’d hold you sets me deep in haunt’ng roots,
In hope and happiness my branches shoot.