Formaldehyde (ver. 4)

[UselessBlueprint]

1

A holy road is black with bloody pools.
The prophets bled to stand beside the throne;
their corpses cut according to the tools
that carve a priceless proverb on this stone:
a satellite in orbit is arranged
but shatters as it falls from steady state.
The stars and planets turn without a change –
prograding to the promise of their fate.
If telescopes don’t help the blind to see,
then I must save this city from its dark
approaching tide. They feebly follow me
like beasts of every kind into my ark.
But only one remains in Herald Square:
a poet which a diamond can’t compare.

2

She writes her poems in pencil, sharply pressed –
each word a silent poison on her lips.
A selfish swipe – her sorrow – won’t divest –
that carbon chisel from her fingertips;
and while she writes of Armageddon’s breath,
it whispers, hanging low in hopeless air
where cigarettes, extinguished, promise death
for bodies that, not broken, self-repair.
The waves of warmth exhaust from swollen throats
that raise an acid storm to record height.
As fatal floods ascend the poet quotes
a fool who gently slid into the night.
Her final song was written with a pen
and she apologized for dying then.

3

Though crystal waters quickly ebbed to sea,
they couldn’t clean the air of smokey doom.
An asterisk was set – and what was she?
A line between the times of womb and tomb.
Her mass had reached a point of full decay
and swiftly passed on through a silent sky,
while I – a guilty man – had run away
and begged her gracious God to let me die.
But life, he said, was worth the pain of loss,
and I, he said, had best accept the fall.
His word and wisdom grew on me like moss
that decorates a couplet on her wall:
Formaldehyde will not preserve for long –
and even pen could never hold her song.

Ver. 3
1

A holy road is black with bloody pools.
The prophets bled to stand beside the throne;
their corpses cut according to the tools
that carve a priceless proverb on this stone:
a satellite in orbit is arranged
but shatters as it falls from steady state.
The stars and planets turn without a change –
prograding to the promise of their fate.
If telescopes don’t help the blind to see,
then I must lead this city from its dark
and dreary days. They feebly follow me
like beasts of ev’ry kind into my ark.
But only one remains in Herald Square:
a poet which a diamond can’t compare.

2

She writes her poems in pencil, sharply pressed –
each word a silent poison on her lips.
A selfish swipe – her sorrow – won’t divest –
that carbon chisel from her fingertips;
and while she writes of Armageddon’s breath,
it whispers, hanging low in hopeless air
where cigarettes, extinguished, promise death
for bodies that, not broken, self-repair.
The waves of warmth exhaust from swollen throats
with gaseous glow of neon embers, bright.
As fatal floods ascend the poet quotes
a fool who gently slid into the night.
Her final song was written with a pen
and she apologized for dying then.

3

Though crystal waters quickly ebbed to sea,
they couldn’t wipe the stain of mortal sin.
An asterisk was set. And what was she?
A line before the curtain-closing spin.
The mass had reached a point of full decay
and softly passed on through a silent sky,
while I – a guilty man – had run away
and begged her gracious God to let me die.
But life, he said, was worth the pain of loss,
and I, he said, had best accept the fall.
His wisdom slowly grew on me like moss
that decorates a couplet on her wall:
Formaldehyde will not preserve for long –
Eternal stars alone will hold her song.


Draft 2
1

A quiet road is black with bloody pools
of prophets killed while fighting for a throne;
their corpses cut according to the tools
that carve a priceless proverb on this stone:
a satellite in orbit is sublime
but falling to the ground disintegrates.
The stars and planets spin in rhythmic time –
from order they can never deviate.
If telescopes don’t help the blind to see,
then I must lead this city from its dark
and desp’rate days. They feebly follow me
like beasts of ev’ry kind into my ark.
But only one remains in Herald Square:
a poet which a diamond can’t compare.

2

She writes her poems in pencil, sharply pressed –
each word a silent poison on her lips.
A selfish swipe – her sorrow – won’t divest –
that carbon chisel from her fingertips;
and while she writes of Armageddon’s breath,
it whispers, hanging low in hopeless air
where cigarettes, extinguished, promise death
for bodies that, not broken, self-repair.
The waves of warmth exhaust from swollen throats
with gaseous glow of neon embers, bright.
As fatal floods ascend the poet quotes
a fool who gently slid into the night.
Her final song was written with a pen
and she apologized for dying then.

3

Though crystal waters quickly ebbed to sea
they couldn’t clear the stain of mortal sin.
An asterisk was set. And what was she?
A line before a curtain-closing spin.
The mass had reached a point of full decay
and quickly passed on through a cloudless sky,
while I, a guilty man, had run away
and begged her gracious God to let me die.
But life, he said, was worth the pain of loss,
and I, he said, had best accept the fall.
His wisdom slowly grew on me like moss
on rocky shores. Erosion marks my wall:
Formaldehyde will not preserve for long –
Her voice will echo as a vict’ry song





Draft 1
1

The empty roads are black with bloody pools
of prophets killed for spreading different views.
I cut their corpses, cold, for breaking rules
and carve this priceless proverb just for you:
a satellite in orbit is sublime,
but falling to the ground disintegrates.
The stars and planets spin in rhythmic time – 
from order they can never deviate.
If telescopes don’t help the blind to see,
then I must lead this city from the dark
and desperate days. They feebly follow me
like beasts of every kind into my ark.
But only one remains in Herald Square:
a poet which no diamond can compare.

2

She writes her poems in pencil, sharply pressed –
each word a silent poison on her lips.
A selfish swipe – her sorrow – won’t divest –
that carbon chisel from her fingertips;
and when she writes of Armageddon’s breath,
it whispers, hanging low in hopeless air,
where cigarettes, extinguished, promise death
for bodies that, not broken, self-repair.
The waves of warmth exhaust from dirty throats
with gaseous glow of neon embers, bright.
As fatal floods ascend the poet quotes
a fool who gently slid into the night.
Her final song was written with a pen
and she apologized for dying then. 

3

Though crystal waters had receded fast,
they couldn’t clean the stains of mortal sin.
An asterisk was set, the die was cast:
a line between – a curtain closing spin.
The body reached a point of full decay
and quickly passed on through a cloudless sky,
while I, with heavy heart, had run away
and begged her God above to let me die.
But life, he said, was worth the pain of loss,
and I, he said, had best accept the fall.
In time his wisdom grew on me like moss
and plainly showed his writing on her wall.
Formaldehyde will not preserve for long –
With me, the stars will always sing her song – 


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