i. Table

Seasoning my beard, appeared near night’s end
     morning’s break, taking from lunar silver
          a bending peace, when, on my knees, I sensed
               a mirror’s tearful silence sounding an
                    owl’s wizening cry, screeching time flying
                         as I heard from the east a shattering,
                              a fading chance at giving me a hand,
                                   a Universe slowing its cosmic dance
                                        of fevered fervour to a halt, calling
                                             stars to pepper the salt falling where age

                                                  ii. Crown

paints a bard darker in thought than in deed,
     dead metaphors affording inscription
          when, dedicating tired words to minor
               causes undeserving of my talent’s
                    purchase, a dervish whorde of hurt’s peddlers
                         and pain’s unfortunate merchants order
                              more, my own version of the World-Soul drawn
                                   in by devilish marketing marking
                                        me gullible, dawn’s taunting breath testing
                                             physics’ limit, as her lips laid on my

                                                  iii. Girdle

greyed looking-glass a broken face feigning
     a fogged mind, staining the essence of her
          fated presence coquettish and unkind
               when troubled to explain how far beyond
                    logic she trained her third-eye’s second-sight,
                         whether or not my smouldering wife, when
                              scorching its border, she brought to light from
                                   behind her veil what my mortal future
                                        might offer, should I invite life’s meaning
                                             to reveal its thousand-and-one reasons

                                                  iv. Pavilion

why we all are still here, and why, in spite
     of rephrasing the question, we ask and
          ask again, our reflections refrain from
               answering, at which she vanished, laughing—
                    my head and eyes heavier than a king’s
                         treasury left by thieves’ hands unpilfered,
                              wisdom’s whispers infinite riches in
                                   a little room, secrets worth less to their
                                        initiates than theft’s resurrected
                                             wealth when buried like a tomb from love’s view.