Poem: Death Stroke

 

Death Stroke

 

a quake

rocked the depths of the how.

 

wrinkles of canyons,

victims of long-ago habits,

across the plateaus of the brain.

 

an epitaph for duplicitous lips,

etched years before their death;

 

for the clay knew it was not innocent.

 

the original sculptor

had massaged subtle lies to build

idols of fate.

 

many many years had been lost,

gone down those rutted roads,

specter-bound,

 

spade after spade after spade.

 

a multitude without vary,

much lack of rainbows

in the stygian mist.

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9/18/25 changed a phrase

9/5/25 ... consistency mods

3/4 ... took out a word

3/3/24...  added a word, removed one