Winsome  

Like some insistent sound

The metaphor repeated

Echoing until it stopped

In his own orbit

 

Its rhythm an African beat

Against his defeated anima

Lurching from against

To again

 

He loved to watch

To dedicate eyes

To the depths

To the idio forms

 

Knowing sanctity

And sacrifice

His sainted mirth

Now demon murk

Fell again

Against a gain

He closed eyes

And then his own

And dreamt of death