Daft gods! discovering, clearing, allowing us to falter:
what minotaur must we escape this glowing day?
we shall deign consider our quandary, afixed to this cold chair-
trusting only ourselves and our simplest machinations.
unto our inglorious hill to be taken against slaughtering machine gun-
we tread, indefatigable for wear, fixed on a solemn prize: an azure flower
the only warmth found in this azure flower, clearing the be-milked world
from the pain of a hardened mind, a dulled wit-
ye men of singular flavor – of no other consideration but your singular aim!
how trustworthy you, one without else in goal, can be – edging ever closer
to the sinking ship you term “purposefulness”
have you bespied the azure flower?
“hapless he remains-
after the death of his only companion,
but he knows the beauty of companionship, of love,
and he has bespied your azure flower, this perfect imperfection as he is.”
“now leave me be – i do not want to be bothered any further.”
gray among earlier reds,
the flattened head of the venturer sits alone,
a penitent reminder of the beauty of times
now long ended.
he does not move
he can no longer, as it is not his power.
lifeless and shapeless, he has found no reason to continue-
but upon his breast, warm like the memories of kisses,
warm and ever fresh, never fading at all,
lays across his breast the azure flower.
and there it remains, never to be profaned.