beware the quivering hand of Night’s mercenary
and the muted helical wisps
of sweet despair that well-nigh consume
the flesh of innocence.
Lurid reflections recovered throughout
the travails of unrelenting circular journeys
foretell stories of transcendence and of sorrow,
and of leaves waxing restful on the pond’s silent breast.
Protean skies sit god-like on their thrones,
Heads bowed, but shifting anxiously.
The roots of these edifices will grow, they say,
and in due time, beatified to soaring ecstasy,
where children will lead in song,
and tread the dusky streets as Kings and Queens.
Art: “The Flatiron”
Edward J. Steichen