once upon this time

I would throw on you all my aches in a fit of weakness
were it not for the wellspring connecting me like an umbilicus
to the mysterious present that constantly loses arrangement
and regains its meaning. Try the waves on the shore, they
receed to expose a barreness of sand glass considered beautiful
by children and salt spray lovers. Try the angel demon lost
in charity and giving from the hand instead of the heart.

But what solemn midnight belfry kills me with its tolling?
Their are many churches here without bells and the tide
is gathering its slime like an evil tongue across the breadth
of our uncertain shore, the edge of the known. Future tense
travels back to peasent demense; fuedalism, food riots, the
order of the sword, and this arcane armor has cracked like clay
in the blistering rust of the sea's hypnosis.

I would like to speak to someone of the old rhymes
where youths built fireships to mark the passing of great men,
and where poets were men of their word who captured the feality
of love's throne. I would tell you with a soft laugh that
we once were gods here, our travels made into marvels, but
you know how that has-been story unfolds without even the
precursing "Once Upon A time."

And I believe that suffering is man's heirloom, handed
down bloodlines through the wounds of birth. See the
war horses in the pasture, their scars are made in one
life and one life only, while we, we carry in us the
fate of our fathers like the fables carry the dark maths
of villain worlds.