THE PROSPECT

Even the solitary house contains within itself
the long expanse of deserted streets,
thoroughfares leading inexorably
to squares of perplexity crowned by pediments
of mysterious allure where statues stand,
portraits of mad philosophers, military failures
in heroic cast, obscure politicos of no achievement.
It is the internal texture of the imprisoned mind
trapped in the dwelling place of frustration,
covered by the grey granite of urban dignity.
How can the inhabitants break free from the oppression?
It weighs upon them even in their hours of sleep.
They must burst forth from the walls caked with blood
and run the opaque puddles of the mysterious streets
there to encounter the flights of strange birds,
the hideous mammals of savage irruption
and the recondite banners of surrender.
Only then will the spell be broken
and time permit the clear air to descend
uncontaminated by the volcano spewing its sulfurous smoke
of vile and never ending threat.