Stagnant Cove [Section I]
Solid carcass; a gleaming splash of paint,
A spine laid on wavering lands,
And a gap in between.
The moon, fair, ambles out, and the tide splashes in,
The owls hoot; the fishes sing their own song,
And the eyes look out into the darkness,
Dreams laid within; hopes kindling with fires and wood.
The bugle sounds its cadence throughout,
While the grains are caught and swallowed,
Light is absorbed by the fluid,
And the sounds are echoed by the cool, mid-winter’s air.
Beneath the rippling soil,
Lay a hole dark and deep,
In which the old were encompassed; Fully to the core.
The new were invading, bit by bit,
Ignoring the cries of the helpless, the poor.
In that hole lay a movement, bold and utmost,
That moved the hills from their places,
And made the paintings on the caverns,
Waver from that very word.
A feeling, emotion, decision was felt, taken,
It coursed through the nerves and veins,
And was shown in those stone-blooded windows.
Ah! the cries were stolen, turned into whimpers,
That etched their mark in the pages of history.
The sentiment had long been rebutted of,
The values had long been thrown away,
The logic had long been ridiculed of,
And the patient tolerated.