october gale!

to be the ultimate reality...

coppery aquatint catches that fire of patina

in a world of being that has no becoming.

oh regina!

a sweep of swallows passes over the moon,

moving according to number on october gale

at noon...

with the demiurge hand frozen on the awl,

every just soul returns to his companion star

in freefall,

but the leftovers are stuck on return fusion

obeying the second law of thermodynamics.

bifrons of dark state preach new commandments,

along with the janus of middle way confusion

babbling the maligned sanctity of subsidiarity.

glorify globalization with third way distribution,

flamens buzzed the ear of religious liberty

but left birds of freedom without a dream.

“man- leave me be”, they scream,

blinded by rayleigh scattering! built on predecessors

every concept, every theory, every number wrong. wrong

form in the senses of the artist imposer grows pale,

blowing illusion that never really is

october gale.