This My Don

This my Don beyond the
frail limits of flesh,
in the silver eye of
your want, lays
the limit of your passage.
Your jousting after spent
promises,
are the fires that
rage and lick
against this flesh-clad doom.

In your new age,
with words that pray
and chant
in the opaque air,
of your thoughts you gallop
flinching into your
denied possibilities.
Your yell against the howling wind
quakes this world and
defies denial.
But ebbs flaccid and silent in the end.

When the whole
sea broils
red with lust
and eludes your grasping
hands, and questing heart,
your defiance of the limit of
flesh and purpose
turns into a preordained crusade
that collapses
hollow and soulless.

The world new
with tilting
and wobble that
you stagger through,
to some secret
prison that you
found in the quiet
of your dark private
space, safe from
waking despair.

The vertigo of
the new
drifts you beyond
trees and roots,
to lands on the
edges of your map.
There be windmills and dragons,
damsels and giants,
that float
only in your
eyes and wishes.

Their fires scald
and singe you,
in your mighty solitude,
questing to the edges.
Mesmerised and enthralled
beyond your flesh,
yet bound by
blood and bone
to the curse cast
upon your passage,
never to step beyond the edge
of the map of your body.

You move and in
motion,
defy the prophecies and
tragedies.
Yet your yell and charge of defiance
falls limp at the
final limit of frail flesh.