Monday, March 3, 2014

FUNERAL MARCH OF SOME OTHER MARIONETTE

The more I manage
to trudge—
with accumulating

confidence—
through the mute 
and turgid 

bulk of enduring 
corpsewhite weather

(my tough little soul 
with each 
step straining—for some soft clearance  

to leap 
forward and sing
and laugh and start whirling such

musical cartwheels 
in the here-
and-there still-drifting frigid 
shards of glitter—)

the more I seem
to take
in stride—the dreadful implications

lying still-
entombed beneath 
the flecked 

and filthy enormity 
of this 
upside—that I'm currently stumbling-
over;

that is—at least
I cannot say

I've ever felt 
less 
mournfully desperate!for 

the neverending 
kind
of silence

being foisted- 
down 
upon the landscape—by the overall 

still-
as-yet unremitting 
and absolute 

ubiquity   
of winter's—thick dull pall.

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