Highgate Tragedy III


No less renowned is our hue, than what has befallen, hitherto

–  browbeat underfoot, are the cowslips light with dew.

No more reified our subsistence, than is canonical its insistence

–  stipend tongues, mine, yours, bought to silence, blistered.

No more are votives sanctified, no man, no sovereign, deified

–  to patent gods coins are tossed; unto death their rattle cast.

No less profound a province, no safer office than clemency

–  communion, fellow, cloaked, beyond all totem regency.


Lain within an alms chest festooned with artifice,

(Beside truth’s fragment thistle and delusion’s loquacious vice)

Is a silver vial of content, of liquid, pure anodyne,

One swill to simulacrum: amnesty – of thought and skein.

written.work.Copyright© 2011-2012. All rights reserved

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