On "Portrait of a Gentleman" by Simone Vouet
with coming night,
an etching of cloudless ruin,
hurricanes of eternity,
a windowless pane--
it seems thought works fire through vein
and dust captures no heat,
when time moves like lava
down a steep ledge,
and bears with it no resistance.
nearing facelessness, the inquiry sits
without cause to jar--
life is nothing with wisdom,
wrought with pestilence--
coursing these veins is a burn,
a flood akin to junglish vines
weeping around the senses
to form a wall,
vast and deep with iron sensibility,
and sadness,
like a well
drowns the sweet green earth
in black.
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