It’s fiction Monday, today bringing you a bit of haphazard poetry. It’s been a long, lovely week, and I have a few short stories in the works that just aren’t ready yet. So, for now …
the twilight of the gods
the syncopated breath of our age
lost in the cocohpany of displaced melodies,
an orchestration of our own destruction
as all the meaning things become things of meaning,
and all the meaningless becomes idol and idol god,
these the notes recorded, half-note and whole,
major keys inverted beneath minor promises,
a piece of Mahler lost in Dover Beach
left to contend upon the rocks.
the old turn of the Green Glass Door
behind which we found trinket treasures
to play the pomp and wealth of kings
of ages long forgotten and worth nothing
but the misfit sleep of bloodied hands
and all for naught, but dreamed demand.
still they round the tables with the set place
and measure distance from plate to plate
and mark the glasses at their level, calling the
wine to task for whsipered proposals that when
night come gone and day forth break make for
broken whisperes and coming proposals
all lost somewhere in the wild fields of belief.
there we shared the secrets of the beautiful
and made a game out of the finitude of our
certain uncertainty–
for this is the twilight of the gods
© 2011, Preston. All rights reserved.
