Drowning The Ghost

Waves flow forth, froth
Suds-ing fingers,  wiry wrists
Taut, & hands in a dance of chicken
Frenzy with feathers aflutter, white
Puffs against lace shreds &
Longer stretches of silk, of skin
Green-blue beneath rushing crests.

The ghost gives up, rises like Lazarus
From its battle with time, the ageless
Search of wrestling  anchors
& rumors as harpoons & lies
As hooks.

Now how a pronouncement of truth
Ascends in a hush of justice
Brilliantly bathed:
Ghost with a lantern striding
The current afloat.  On his face wet
Beads glisten silver as tears
Or as scales

Yet he gazes in eternal age
With Mona Lisa's whisper
Of such a quiet laugh.
Yes, at last, quite unkillable,
The drowned ghosts hovers, chains of
Slavery now a sword, his robe, naked
Loins, a perfect shield in order to pass
At home with all elements & that,
Enough vengeance

Against the attempts to bring him down

 

 

Copyright © 2007 Stephen Mead