Anemone (Breath Of Wind) Poem by Leila Samarrai

The spherical gush, gutted fish, the black ghost knife,
Verso verb velocity at the shadow fire opera,
Pitch blasted throats, obsidian soul vocal chords.
Unconsecrated blood pulse carouse,
I become flame word on inflammable parchment,
I become the refuse that doesn't die in dire,
You are the luminescence that doesn't expire.
A women whom reapers fail to tread, nor scythes to harvest,
Like myself; ensorcell and spell sempiternal.
Dominion over a huge…black…whisper…
Dissolving in the teeth of death's cut trees,
That lispers immortally in terrified misspell.

Fish gnawed cross of wood and brass,
Quick as flash lightning bound by fangs,
Four wolf packs slithe and vanishing serpents,
Exigency in hungry worlds,
Pictures scuttled on the ocean floor.

It is the time of the dead,
From beginning to end,
The time of the dead.
The time of the living - in the vapids and cruels;
The black is breaking…
The black is breaking…
The Ides of March, there lay the albatross,
Poor beggar - unknowing, unthinking and blind,
In a threatening verse he preferred to die.
But winged Icarus pervades,
It's tolling the zither quietly,
And the wind cries: "Anemone'

I'm cutting the ties, the Empire dies, in entangling shadows,
Naked God crucified in the commons.
And man on earth walks alone,
Sanguined feet marching to Adam's sepulchre.
You played God and God danced along,
You played the devil, peddled your essence, paltered your prescience.

You are:
Insurgent exemplar!
Conjurer empiricist!
Caesar executioner!
You are Harlequin!
You are Icarus!
You are Prometheus!
You are a corpse that never dies.