Sweeping Tragedies

Once again, I’ve filled the long pauses from prose with idle poetry; not good poetry, but poetry nonetheless.

Take an island and,
from it, burn all flesh and bone
and let its deed pass,
into my hand.

There I will make Eden,
and populate myself;
no Eve, no God, no animal save,
this poor, bloody heathen.

With the ashes of leaves,
I will daub my face and
I will make a raised stage floor,
from the carcasses of trees.

There,
to an absent crowd,
I will perform sweeping tragedies
and abandon reason to the empty air.

Solitude! Solitude with better men,
and women than I as company.
Such simple joy by complex means;
Then;
Madness.

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