The Harrow

I.

Curled upon a framed hill, by an oily shore
not to know, not to explore, the trapped
into their heirloom desperation, upon me
the depth creatures of loss scuttle furtive
digesting rust and oxide of centuries old.
I not understand the gravity of my actions, I,
I am thoroughly flayed by the fiery current,
channeller of that which is irretrievable;
harrow down the steel frame slopes
presaged by the small, heartless Morningstar
all across, to its scalding polar opposite.
I want nothing more than be not,
farewell to this brief nightmare
shaking and grinding at its own loss.

II.

This twilight saved in a red shoebox
just for me, how precious!
Precious, just for me. Only to me.
I do wish nightmares to never end,
as they are a sign that dreaming is still
working its harrow within me, that I can
birth both my elation and my depression;
there is a whole universe that does
not include beauty, yet can only be
understood as its eventual expression.