Inside Lines (a poem)

   Inside lines of time and being
shapes of the world with temperatures seeming
to act for moments with rust to gather
concrete examples of well weathered dust

   As if time clocks itself with leaves ever growing
upon stellar backdrops of nebulae showing
flesh away to encompass vague meanings
trees of life splintered like explosive dreaming

   A way through those mirrors
toward mortality’s end
nothing holds still
like the silence of zen

   Gestalt with conditions; ice caps melt with the sun
beyond a last day’s twilight
a New Year has begun
in wet snow and mud flowing acrimonious blood
through early rays with that laser wrench
corrupting war continues its forsaken stench
too much of the dead.