The weakness that is transcribed in our bones,
The subtle humors of our dispositions,
How we in instances sublime affix our fates
To ordinates of aversion.
A barely remembered allegory for the soul’s flight
Into the maw of Cerberus, that servant of a jaded oarsmen,
Sloshing, slipping, slowly serenading
The ghosts haunting the underworld.
The days between autumn and spring
When winter chills the bones
The trumpet of triumphant larks,
Heralding the break in the weather.
There is a sadness to omniscience,
A trembling disquiet in determinism –
Like some Calvinist’s dream, a Leviathan,
Delving the deep, dark waters of memory.