With Irregular Thumps
By Jack Stroud (Wimbledon, London, England)
The fingers tap an incessant beat,
Upon the dull wood – irregular thumps,
The crescendo is built, and never completed,
Note after note and – discordance.
The water precipitates from the sky,
In glorious liquefaction it flows,
It’s destination on the roll of a die,
Only the thirsty dead have their woes.
The eagle is tied with chains,
Twisting in vain – irregular thumps,
Starved of its prey, never satisfied,
Screech after screech and – discordance.
Trickling so slow life progresses,
In pitiful liquidity it goes on eternal,
Yet to hide in the Cave’s recesses,
Is worse than a life most total.
The mind plays games of its own,
Red-organ spasms – irregular thumps,
It’s destination fated and unknown,
Thought after thought and – discordance.