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The Spire

What sights on stricken cliff arrive?

On stormy feasts do visions thrive

With tastes of lust and vanished days.

The blessed eye this scene surveys.

High promontories gird the fear

Of fortunes passed and burdens dear.

The waves erode the withered stone

In thrall to winds of lonely moan.

Upon these seas did passion ride

In times concealed by fog and pride.

Those currents carried once the care

Of urge unbound and fury bare.

No logic would their pull deny;

No love’s embrace matched that of sky.

No lips could kiss with hope to win

Against the mists that graced the skin

With sure caress and promised fate

Of glories vast and journeys great.

No signs persist of broken vow;

That jealous call’s deserted now.

Bereft is breast of bold intent.

The limb is thus to languor sent.

No fresh horizons shall it grasp.

No ear shall note the ocean’s rasp

That rants with verve to greet the rise

Of morning’s light in eager cries.

No march shall meet that crawling tide

With hastened step and easy stride.

That ancient rage shall linger here

With sorrow no monsoon could steer.

It places not its foot before

The orchid breach that did implore

The soul to drift in sunken past.

Too swiftly were those yearnings cast

To depths no endless gaze could break.

No wonderment attends in wake

To wander through those turquoise thrones.

Those waters that had gladly flown

Desire to its destined port

Rescind the summons of their court.

No stars can rouse this form from rest.

No ventures beckon or invest

Their powers on a wreck so still.

No stubborn force of former will

Survives to show its fallen truth

Or exercise a moment’s ruth.

No exile strength or vacant might

Can orchestrate a futile fight.

Submerged in dread and anguish old,

Those erstwhile fires fade to cold.

No movement do these flames ignite;

They stir the silent squalls of spite.

In seething fits of swollen gale

Mix haunting songs of torrents pale

With years that flash their horrid glow

And frigid thoughts of craven woe.

Naught drives this husk to seek the sun.

In frozen flow dull tempers run.

No thaw ascends through hoary bone.

No motions praise the blue unknown.

No prayers from arid throat escape

To give some wish its crooked shape.

No fluid tune revives the veins.

No effort’s spent to bear the strains

Of melodies that crossed the air.

No blossoms of that latent flare

Appear to spark the darkened brow

That vanquished dreams would disavow.

All’s covered with a wintry sheen

That shimmers with what might have been.

No flutterings beneath that frost

Remain to mourn ambitions lost.

This armour keeps its charge inside.

That dormant thirst can only hide.

No chords of courage ever ring.

No hungers hold their welcome sting.

The  rain-slaked rocks provide the stage,

But they can’t dare to match the cage

That ages unavenged have built

From lead and iron forged from guilt.

Keep not this idle watch alive.

Just let that final sight arrive!

Copyright © 2011, Jaymes Buckman and David Aaron Cohen. All rights reserved. In a good way.