by Gideon Burton
The trick is too dismantle what remains,
that sturdy infrastructure mutely strong
against your best revisions: soul and brains
and muscled managing to purge the wrong,
bend back the wayward will to good, for good.
From wounds to wisdom rising day by day,
by every measure bettering as one should,
escaping damp anxieties of gray.
Yet like a virus sleeping in the spine,
those rugged remnants biding out the time,
prepared for when a darker rhythm chimes
all clear, the better part of him's resigned.
I cannot rust that rubble, raze that hell;
But greening growth unchokes me from the spell.
Photo: flickr - Sebastian Niedlich (Grabthar)