Re-Garbing

Pride,
it’s time I put you aside,
purge the mind of your advice,
put you back in the box Pandora.
Ambition breeds avarice,
a quart of desire multiplying rampant;
contagion ways of reckless abandon.

I’ll take these rags up,
let the Tatterdemalion roam,
perhaps the Tinsmith will share a jug,
imbue some wino wisdom
of abandon and troughs.
Or perhaps, the Ferryman can usher us home;
smiling as the Styx churns frothy,
sating Charon’s toll in humility.

Rust takes up residence
upon this ocher crown–
How the ambrosia goes wasted!
sops all over life lines.
Woe to those wicked sisters,
that fatalistic triumvirate
of yarn frayers and snippers—
if only numerals were the true prison.

Death of Analogue

Grandfather clock strikes metronome,
stuck permanently in mute dying agony,
chiming an hour beguiling:
its temporal demise.

Avian scream,
materialized magically,
chirping it’s elegy
for a broken sequoia tower
that’s overspent its numerical tyranny.

If only you could fix this malady;
whirring contraptions
birthed from pursuing stars.
Who was I to claim time?
Dictating hours,
rousing phantom alarms—
every pulse claiming life.