The Jibe bites me where it hurts

The eyes are but a mirror

whats hidden is in between

eyelash and tear drop

the ridges of time

speak in wrinkled whispers

only surreal sounds

can reciprocate

 

the mystic rhythm

flows

when they peer

into empty

spaces

to recollect

their old forgotten self

regained in battle

with mighty, lofty

souls, blessed with privilege

and ghastly grandeur

 

Let him smile

in peace

and rest in joy

jest is a shroud

to mark his beginning

that prosaic minds

cannot contemplate

 

what lies beneath

is not magic

nor is it sanctity

but sacred verses

hissing at those

that glide over

the biting cold

and naked summer

, and yet, my dear,

love, singes your fate!