The Fox
The mystic hallowed silence,
the stillness within the spaces,
between the sounding bells of these pounding places,
rising in these unspoken words,
from its den of din,
silently it creeps,
into the coop of your heart,
and steals away the hours,
the ticking remnants at the start.
Time is a fox,
sly and silent,
paw prints on your heart
the only evidence of its passing.
The dawns crowing Cock,
heralds one chicken less,
in the coup of your unstirred moment,
sneaks the fox of ubiquitousness.
To find the passion within,
a constant search without,
within, a dream, all doubt,
laid at the alter,
of the flaming cenotaph of each passing moment.
Seize this time,
this chimeric fox by its tail,
and whip your failing soul into a frenzy of desire,
aroused from this listless ennui,
thrown upon your own sententious funeral pyre.
Wait for no ones permission,
for no one waits for yours,
But grasp that future steel,
from the white hot hearth of your brazen depths,
and plunge it, into the tempering bath,
of your own present moment,
grinding that edge, to severe its head.
Suffer not the idle wanton longings of past regrets,
they are but beds upon which future dreams are bled,
but Set your Hounds upon this Fox,
and in the chase, within the gnawing space,
the constant tick of those endless clocks,
rise above the saddened sighs,
the putrefying corpses of the past,
until at last, the constant ticking of that time,
is silenced in your own portentous sanctuary,
harried to the ground, eaten by your victory.
Forget those, who, trapped in their own past dementia,
would attempt to pull you back into their misery,
for they are trapped within their own oblivion, history!
unable to muster even a momentary vision of grace,
they are broken, sullied, a fantastical waste of space.
Time is a Fox, rally your hounds,
taste not the bitterness of remorse,
but run it to ground, rip it asunder,
as those bitches and bastards of your past go under.
© Richard Michael Parker 2010
