SAUL’S HEARING
There’s a fever born lushly at the entrance of mind.
There’s a guard for generations, their bold sign.
I’ve granted a small variation, this one time.
Like a mind its deadly inch. It’s mortal crime.
I’ve never been so old, or bullied by time,
as now, a dirt king, pausing.
Young man, take heart the vision of kings.
Play for the mind
so gravely obsessing. I’m still unsure,
what death prefers.
Which for a dirt king, pausing?
So, he lathered as foam a lover,
the verse I once preferred.
A crocus for the tint of Eden,
its bowling green colour.
My good God’s word.
Young man, show me the crown
for the strings you’ve learned.
I too, hung insanely,
until I heard, and heard.
I heard the pale stir of a chime,
its tired, tin layer.
And a crown rolling in the grime,
favoured.
The dirt king abounds on the tempest of a wing.
The heartstring on one man’s hearing.
So please, David, bring now
your perfect strings.
What tortured ears allow,
I’m hearing.
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