For Our Metalhead—Worshipping—Across the Courtyard
Night comes in, engages desires, touches worn, unfolds.
Not born to saunter while August swells, Autumn layered in textures of dust, slips, droplet by droplet, into the stillness of winter.
The silent wild transcriptions of blackness do not speak of freedom or truth or the canvas sky . . .
November is no longer daydreaming of future, or a box of iridescence.
Night comes in . . . Among the clouds, fearful, rushing, if moves away.
[Nik Bärtsch´s Ronin Modal 39_8]
Berlin 8/28/2010 10:54 pm
(c) Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. 2010