Consistency

Like a spring, doubts flow.
Crystal tongues drunk with God's wine,
                I shall hear no more words,
                I have etched too much in these bones.

When the prophet comes, the winds forecast
Lightning and mud; this I know and ignore
                  I've worn the future's every suit
                  Before casting them off into the valley.

A woodland is born whence I pass,
Oak trees of pity, sympathetic palms;
                  So much done for me,
                  So little ever reaches me.

Prayer upon marble lips, with a scent of sea-salt,
I steal it in the night to make a potion of echoes
                  Resounding, black, misty, eruptions
                  Until the transfiguration to nostalgia is complete.

Truth of the dawn, the death of the hour
Veins of magnolias still silent, weaving
                    With crimson grins,
                    The sun sets behind the eye-lids.

Look up into the North Star, tonight,
And you'll see all the words I've ever owned
                      You'll know why I've done everything
                      But not why I still do them.

For that one must stop listening to me
And ask if the body knows what you think.
                      Be cruel to the indifference
                      That shelters you.

When all history is recited
I shall discover the full secrets of the mummys
                        And sleep, without dreams
                        For the next two thousand years.