Metamorphosis

That I could hammer the wispy wierdings Of my mind’s madness Into bands of clasping syntax. In a fiery forging, Ignite the unwieldly word Mould to make it same and sane. Find Plato’s print and press Ideal To weather the grey grasp of the Ages And make it stand for Ever. I revel, foolish in the folly of the New A precious ring to it Atop the Tower of Babel. Then, on breaching the mouth Crosses over as a phantom Word, chimeric as the smoky thought. Now, a shallow shadow of the formless Pressed to breath and puckered lips As stillborn hissings split into language. And already dead, an empty husk After metamorphosis To a compromise on paper.