Ancient Iteration 4

For B.J.



just down the street

cross the bend

where the oval breaks

and broken men sit

where the aromas of morning

seep into the day,

across its coco-nutty shade

down deeper and deeper still

and thru the Eros' atrium

lies a crossing green and blue

and further still

down that very path

a french bistro

not so, but some still may think

a ripple runs thru

of barbed wire and congealed blood

chained linked

an abandonment of human soul

they direct others, not me

and through the labyrinth

of deceptive order

of books,

and wine,

and blood,

the tears of the intellect

asunder on the beach

washed in waves of apathy

arise! arise!

rage! rage!

see it swept in the tide

yes! this is the place

hope comes to die.