last tango in the lot of abandond truth. part 3

The prince on the hill at mornings wars contest
sketched the change of the age with elder eyes;
the death of the garden, the fallen fortress.
In battle mid-res great warriors die
Apollo hails Ares “ You’ve just killed Love”,
“I slit her wrists. To watch crimson to sepia dry”
at the feet I might kiss, to change just enough to
alter to the past. Adrianus sang Alexander -
one line remains. World makers and word shapers
wish scream for time. As the sun seeks to rise
the daughters of Zeus flee from a modern chorus
till night and posey reside. I sit and rest my eyes,
left alone till dark from the suns first light rays
so many minutes, hours and days.

Tomorrow before we wake

 Imagine a forest of flesh, of twisted limb grottos,

green grey skin floored dells, rivers stagnate

drip with chaos rust, congealing in the crooks

of mothers arms. Torn people-roots matted

shattered copses in the vales, heads and hands

pulped in the scramble of tortured flesh vines.

Imagine a forest inside a lost child, that calls

for her earth mother. Stripling feet, cast

in blood clay waltz to the stamp of progress,

 to the teacher and the fool, to the whip

and the call. As the forester tears roots

 for alms, the un-innocent takes more fruit.

Imagine a forest without. Without trees

without people, without sap, without

 leaves, love, laughter, wind, sun, signs,

paths, broken oaths, memory, without

significant, concern. Condemned.

Now. You. Imagine a forest. 

like

like waste on water, words,
smog cloud day,
like vomit on pavement
washing sleep, away

like land that dug in,
or birds that blown out,
in night time slipping,
oil stained sand

like rocks in ships, beating,
like beaches drinking rusting
cans of rotting boats
like grass sea scum foam caught

like forgotteness piecing together
another puzzle,
like together treading,
like liking lying, like forgotten
stained cotton wind washed beach blown.