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.

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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….