It's a sign of despair,
to ground consecutive pages
into dust.
One must let
the consecutive
choose the executive junction.
Turns by turns
are burned
if precious previous passages
are lost.
That's why
the narrator's mind
must be cultivated.
Grow, narrator,
grow up beyond
your Bildungsroman height,
past the hallowed blight
of your awful,
lonely nights.
Those desperations
deduce depredation
by the wolf-stepped self
whose teeth drip
with the bloodlessness
of the moons you did not see.
The moon is a boon
if you let yourself loon,
crying out to the other bird
who shares this lake with you,
your bird of paradise,
your night flowers
only visible
to your stark
naked eyes
clothed only
in the memories
behind them.
Roman Ryan 