Such a myth, a thing to see
this entropy: unreachable to you or me,
this thing that cannot be, in a den of thieves
filled with the smoke of burning paper and leaves, all of which achieves
nothing more than a corner of blue sky
caught in Fyodor’s expectant eye and though he may try
to see over the wall, he remains so minute, so small, so sick and tired of it all
that a spirit creeps into vistas of the Neva,
before a man with a fever sets off to do something of note,
perhaps breathe his final quote, his worn soul left afloat
in a woodworm riddled boat with just one paddle.
But who am I to saddle this burden upon the only one
that all along has been a believer in “just fuck her and leave her”,
basking in the torrid stench of a dying star
which has offered nothing save a scar.
Irrespective of doubt and all things considered
there is no “without”, just a reaction triggered
by an overused leitmotif: if reconfigured, not abused
might not this chief gather up his dear strength to lift the fountain,
no longer man, now a mountain, becoming in one motion
at one with the ocean and breed the seed
that could become like Moses ‘mongst the reed…
a key, uncut.