seven wildernesses

and now, with all these poems written
poetry has taught us– only this
that the loveliest words
are the loveliest of lies
most, just buzzing contrivances
fringe-winged hordes that swarm
then finding quick expiry
leaving only their brittle hollows
and the chewn dust
of their indiscriminate devastation
leaving us starved, and staggering
rueful, arch-backed, and rabid
and since then, learned we
also this–
that madness
is the only honesty
tho its screams– pinched thin
squelched amid the murmuring din of words
and that silence, be
our enmity’s true voice
its bell tower song, ringing– purity
its hymns sung in a language, ancient
a tongue, unheard by its betrothed
passed on to us as we’d been born
and tho it’d be unspoken
for whom we–
through these long-evenings, sing
still, they’d be known
and learned we– that this animus be
only sadness’s vast reminder
its chilled-shadow armies amassing
upon the distant hills of morrow’s morn
as learned we, lastly
that in this sunset’s brisk falling
and, aye, since the beginning
and now, with all these poems written
it’d been poetry which’d ruined us
left us here, lovers
each of us
to yowl, and to maunder
our seven wildernesses

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