The year fills my window with
a feint ash
second opinions come along
to able the progress of the flash
flooding rivers that torment
me and ask for the litter to
be swept away to sea.
I almost lost my writing hand dipping
my quill in the blood soaked ochres
that tainted the adure with one
of saintly cumbersomes.
The paint when dry showed
years of coming to be
in the oceans of the world
when it was not for the man
and child to know but for the worker
and the red to resignedly
host their perils among the dew
of the age.
The reeds rustle with still birthed plains
of swamp and life is still too long
in the seams to make the red
of the offal seem blue with the colour
of might and irresolution.
It is time for the resurrection of man
and the need follows with each failed
task of memory.