Hanging Trumpets – a poem

Ignore the vast foaming river

Of information flowing, far

Over rocks never worn, adamantine

Bedrock layer beneath the waves,

One’s will an ocean in storm.


A sweet zephyr winds through hills

Low rising rather than squat stacks,

Sloping sides call to mind madness

Long kept within, crystals catching

The sparkle of corruption, original sin.


What price could be paid, for surcease

However transitory? The soul deeds

Given up in promise of a life more

Than ordinary, yet painless, free;

Such promises are more dream than true idea.


Bright red bloom the opiate trumpets,

Hanging like devil blossomed fruit

In the otherwise dry forest on those slopes,

The waxy latex oozing, dripping, falling

From those hanging trumpets of sweetling death.


Mandalas of madness swirl high above,

Strange storms of charged ion dreams

Streaming in aether, a light pejorative

Cacophony called into physical spirals

Which make litten the red trumpeted valley…


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