The nameless temple still in time, is alive yet;
made of numberless hearts of heavy accents,
on the slope of a slippery mountain;
its walls like rags of dying flesh, loose.
So many days, setting moons and raising suns,
and the foundation of quick sand and traitorous undertow,
cries, screams, agony and deep voices in unison,
sing a lost past, a future still in the womb.
Tearing at the gut of a people prisoner of fate,
the shackles squeeze the remaining crimson drops,
on the rocks of highways to nowhere,
eyes in terror wonder to the vanishing point.
Fire devours all, around, shaken only by the thumps,
of bass conflagrations beyond the known present,
brick by brick the establishment falters,
gray matter, sole cement to warrant a civilization.
The ground is soaked with the bleeding heavens,
no safe land remains as the new temple must arise,
amongst the ruin and into the sinking soil,
in a night where light prevails fed of a billion souls.
Dim dots in space shiver, whimper, blink accomplice,
to the unfathomable abyss of a new creation,
the temple will rise, out of sight, a quiet giant,
soon it will pounce, mighty conquering panther .
It is time for the body to stand tall, a giant,
in a known island, where it remained ignored,
free from fetters of gold, steel, and good graces;
the temple is, it feels, it lives.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and more than two dozens other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than seventy other publications.