Columns of light in retrograde.
And I? Beset. Besieged.
Somehow, by transience, betrayed,
in awe of lost prestige.
If only I'd a ligature
to bind this blinding light
to glares on glass which does immure
my visage on this night...
I mightn't have a need to bleed
from sordid little wounds
brought out through squalor to precede
the scratching of these runes.
A beating, breathing, grieving chest.
A beat to blur my sight.
And still a beat to blank the blest
of loneliness and blight.
Only, another knowledge now
pervades the twilight air.
This propagation does allow
the lessened to declare:
"Columns of light in retrograde...
And I? Beset. Besieged.
Somehow, by transience, betrayed,
in awe of lost prestige."
Author notes
Driving 75 on the freeway, bass blasting mirrored headlights into monolithic oblivion... who could have guessed such a prompting should yield an old soul hymn like this, aye? Moreover, it's about self-deprecation and searching for some rectification for past and present wonderings whilst being invariably swallowed by a mass of swelling enforced solitude.
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