Pax- Beggar of Moss- a poem

The beggar of moss

a basin of blood before her,

for quarters

and pax

the languid alchemy of hips sway

conjures up a fleet of

sailing ships

sensation

I watch incense burn

smoke curls from lips tranquil

and blue

Whale call to the substance

umbilicus, a crucible of ambergris

melancholy music

like the leavings

of a glass of brandy by the fire

the exquisite need to paint

to the sighs of it all

the hair on the brush dances

with restless color

and spreads like longing

across the canvas

beads of coherence forms breath

bestowed as air inside bubbles blown

by a seer child

who watches them fly

into the firmanent

with the intensity of a bonsai tree

who bears the lion heart of a redwood

with sure footed boots on streets of

grey-eyed stone the composer looks

but never sees

He looks away

as cupids bow rubs against

the strings of a violin

it trembles and cries

like a gorgeous lamb

a eulogy to anguish so ancient

at the requisite rending

without hesitance the strong

and smooth steps towards the furnace

and the fall

into the beds of consummations

with the fluid fed wick

and incantations

All that is ever taken is scent and soul

and the fall into the beds

of childbearing, the scribe

always seals the birthright

of subjugation or marks mastery

without virtue

for those who do not believe

the twelve signs, are mere glitter

a shower of star constellations

crenelations

notches on a belt, on the walls

and towers of ivory with beards of ivy

in the nooks

coarse chest hair sprigs in crows nests

and water pools as the rain falls

into runnels caught in jars

like dreams of danger and druids

sickles and olive oil and garlic cloves

hanging with potatoes in hessian sacks

with sheaves of wheat and barley

staples shared in chipped bowls

and the fall into the beds

of death in glass bottles

from an apothecary with elixir brews

and tincture

but crowns form in the flames

with the candles lament

knitting prophecies like socks

in the wax