Pluto’s Legacy

something stubborn,   recalcitrant,   rises up
within to stop the light,   to dam the flow,
to squelch beauty at the spring,   its fountainhead.
this darkness paints black the sky,   paints black the
rainbow,    makes of every rainbow just an
oilslick,   makes of every garden a mere dung heap
as though the flowers had no fragrance,   blots
out their bright beauty,   ignores the bees and
butterflies flitting among meadow blossoms,   smells
of musty leaves  .  .  .  this something feeds on hate,
dwells in sewers,   clings to the bones of longdead
ancestors,   crawls away from the sun to preach
decay to ancient dead,   to sing bone scratch
choruses of oblivion to the earth.


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