ironic

no memories in
blackness of the
temple ruins, of
alchemist foot soldiers
trapped beneath my souls,

i just run forward
from trains we left long ago
derailed in pain but
left in helpless gratitude
stored for safekeeping,

boxed up crematorium
languished in an imaginary
pot of gold
but without any rainbow
only the curl of wind,

find me in the tree I climbed
or up in the high
empty broken house
by the railroad tracks
hidden by overgrown weeds,

uncanny how such a presence
so pressured against the wind
can create such a vacuum in life
in my life, or in one's own life
backwashed to the aqueducts,

our own endless obsession of
worldly disasters amuses our
conscious ever-eager dismal brains
to putrefy in hatred and competition
despite our need for each other,

wrong - but ironic.