The Style of Denial

There are somethings that we are unwilling to accept or believe or even countenance. We might take our denial to the grave with us rather than accept.


At the style of denial

I will not cross

however sweet the meadow


On the barbs of defense

the razor wire bastion

amongst empty mud of the a-void


And were you to rub

my nose in that pile

I’ll bite your hand, in thanks


There is no force

the universe through

can make me, admit


The rats and corpses

of my deepest trench

are my earthly recompense


No lens, no revelation

can heal my cataracts

most welcome and familiar


For should I crumble

the merest of an inch

that gilded cage implodes


Until they box me last

this stance my living rigor

my mortice lock, my dance


I will it e’er maintain

for ‘tis there I dare not,

cannot, will not go


So do not ask me

before the cockerel

to even start, it to acknowledge


In the style of denial

I will not ever cross

however sweet the meadow….