Nine from the Spring

There are false muses bending before you in fits of laughter,
Writhing in groves where flowers have fallen into
Sacrifice before the ancient roots of weeping trees.
Who now will write of these monumental structures of nature,
As we no longer look to their dumbed greatness?
We shall not turn the abstract into a God,
And we can not hear that universal snare being
Released from the bell tower- for the old iron of
The bell cries but a distant echo,
Startling new birds from their perches.
All is wrapped in black smoke and even the sun
Sees the abyss and wavers across the sky in drunkness
Like a beggar crying on the cathedral steps,
Where is my Madonna?

Indeed there are false muses winding clocks
With filthy hands in pools of memory.
Herald I must, that not reverie alone concerns me,
Nor other naturally occurring whims of humanity.
It is a testament of today that I struggle to endeavor,
While false muses do cantor the spirit of the time.
That which has past occurred is the premier curve to thought.
Insoforth, an understanding of genius has died.
And it is just that we should suffer so, our past grievances.
Those men that have died in the laps of others and
Been sculpted out of stone, have not been made gladder;
For they have been forgotten not once, in vain, but twice more.
Fear will reverberate upon every turn of the century.
And thus will go on, the poet without Mother, until
A crowd has gathered to shed light into
That tenebrous spring.