Asia Minor

Does it ever really end,
Did it ever really begin?
My sister, she told me,
With a beggar's grin,
A grim recompense
Midst a regalia of death.
The butterfly in the mist
Pressed against the page
Like a window to infinity.
The slow march abreast the waves--
To Carthage then I came.
Catharsis.

Dialect so plain,
The valley of the caterpillar
Between two sheer cliffs.
*Slow clap* pillars of either this or that
Either one.
I say Father dear,
Mother severe,
There is no sight to soothe me,
Everywhere the tide of illusion eschews me from society
As if something guiding,
Vines around my feet
And your shadow at 12:03,
Dust in your face,
Eyes watering on the barren heath
And there is no wedding ring,
And there is no reverberation,
Only prison and pain and malice in station,
The palace of waste and indiscretion.
Nothing on top but a bucket and a mop
And an illustrated book about birds.
Radiant playa of doom,
Who needs actions
When you've got words?
Antithetical

Poetics of grace
Of wax and then wane,
A polish of deepening sickness.
The deepest most blackest home,
Darkness darker and feeling alone,
If you listen to me
I can show you something:
A fallow field all surrounding,
A friend knows no fear,
A friend knows only truth
And an open ocean all around you.