the knock of knells, nails
hammered in the neck. Blood drips
and settles down in the hidden depths
without the skeletons of agony.
But on the surface the boastful conscience
floats ruffled by the twirl of bulbous hyacinth roots.
Yet the bulging bubbles blame the moving fish and
the current created by its swirl and not the weak see-through
surface of their own edginess that makes their minds
flow as mountains of mist in empty caves.
Gold of guilt is precious. It has Midas touch of miracle
For the thirst of things trivial travelling fast past throbs of thrill through
the thicket stealthily nowhere destination destined so drag and drift.
Mind has mountains deep in the Pacific of bliss privately contempleted,
Powers purely personal press and set the firm home on fire
for vibrations sweet cheat the heat heaped on the head and change it into
a cozy bower of real bliss. Turn any knob of knowledge and get the roll-knoll
of knack in sacks of suffering and attain salvation and save the day from a fall.