Poem: Death Stroke

 

Death Stroke

 

a quake

rocked the depths of the how.

 

wrinkles of canyons,

victims of long-ago practice,

across the tableau 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 turned subtle fingers into pliers of fate.

 

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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