The Open Mandala

A Poem by Perdition

It was hinged on manifold, rue and scarlet fate, pooling in the young maiden’s hand. Ghastly hewed, I scarcely dimmed where the sound and soul had so wantonly paced; so strangely familiar, these bruises 'pon my port Village.

One must take heed, as madness too dwells in these tired

countries.

Balance holds the hand briefly, staggering ‘tween a flint and dry spark onto wool and all the idle hours, all our daily countering sways under crow filled languages. Though this will nigh cease this eternal stalking where shadows fill and define the candle-walls; days effortless, once we barter our ends toward our ends.

Clarity binds these ideas deep as the river’s grave and we pray it forms from lightning, we pray it forms from our fangs affinity. The bloodline auguring down to a quiet evening to come; An evening where land forgives us our mental status, where all in greed stays here forgotten and redeemed.

This and all awaits from voice, our answer, we must begin to know this challenge, know this wound as it creaks. unhinged and pooling within the late young maiden’s hand.