The pitfall of that amorous desire, notations
Morphed blinking words that fail to all but outline
Delectable nectars fanatically wrung
From a homely flower above dirt most salient 
Midst the cacophony of crows that speculate
Through tenacious caws, sparking dread 
In the weak hearts of men, their palpable flesh 

Fair weather permits strolls along the path
Delineating the approach to futured smiles
Tattooed with inks of halcyon once presented
As a enteral freefall of winded ecstasy
Rushing, contorting bodily flows into sensation
Proved but the sword of passion dulls
Rusted as the collapse downwards continues 

Just beyond the rising stem lays the descent
Eons of hands, implements now machines
Braved beneath in servitude with obsession 
Parasites of lust lent ears for voices of the dark
Yet today, from the pathway as old as emotion
No diesel smoke perverts the specters of work
The slashing of rock remains but distant ghost

It is here, planted besides the petal’s stead
Below the spiteful warbling of harbinger birds
Decision presents itself in the hand of the pit
Unfolding papers promised under cogitation
Never to present in the company of stagnancy
Truths that spoke themselves before guided pages
Those lips knew before the recording

That launching oneself in the care of the hollow
Brings a feeling that may last as long as heart
Voracious for flesh and destinies self-extoled
But sours still as time erodes what was sought
The pink life matures to purple before rotting 
Does one truly desire to feel the love of the fall?
And can one endure the fall when love departs?

---

Mason Betty, “Oak Island” from Sallos