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Image by Hiroshi Kimura


the madrigal, volume iii.v

Heirs of Atreus

by s.t. brant

                 Your heart goes through the rapids for your life to be streams.
                                What’s love to us?
                 Float. Be. Swim. End.
                                What overhangs a river is a tree,
                                Eden hanging from its leaves.
                                The sun extends its beams
                                Through the tempting branch, dives
                                Shining into the flow to flower
                                Some shadow of a paradise
                                You’ve forgotten in your heart,
                                Sailing undeterredly downstream,
                                Its color, substance, it’s reality a god bleeding
                                Toppled myths from heaven
                                In your open seams,
                                Memory floods the river of your being,

                                But you-
                                              We all... -

                                Are Tantalus deprived of reach.

                 Life is the tangle of our yarn in brambles, unraveling
                 The coat that’s warm against the rain
                                And chains against the thorns.
                 The dead are streetlights in our conscience
                               Where we are in constant dark
                 But for the speckled wisdom they impart.

                 Here is played our scene of fire.
                               When our hearts are washed in oil
                               And their saturation reconciles
                               The libation to our souls
                               To meet the phoenix needs
                               We’ll burn whole.

                Lost leaves in the lamplight.
                I have left the life led in spring
                To listen to the songs that winter sings,
                If they can lead to a new Being,
                If they can re-sing harmony
                And undesolate all knowing
                (Age has pitched me to the desert, lonely).

                A frond of fire on a palm,
                Burnt off, lest the garden flare,
                And all of life’s as eden was,

                A sun on earth-
                No, that is not the life desired by the trees,

               The leaves. I blow into the desert
               A new hyperion to wander
               Toward the mountains for a home.

                The fronds of fire on the palms
                              In the fire garden,
                Stitching gold across the sky,
                             The stitching orioles and sunshine
                Manifest the lights alive in my heart will hum beyond the end.

S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others.  You can find him on Twitter @terriblebinth or Instagram @shanelemagne. 

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