The purple cradle, an orbit.
Rocket ship of dreams.
Waters upon the lap of shore.
Beachhead, the impossible.
Oceanic bliss and wonder, this mixture.
Too late we realize,
the crater is dust, where nothing special resides, but stillness.
A marble sculpture of a god, I contemplate thee.
The moon will shudder, upon arrival of this.
Mars, with his Talons.
Total control and its totality.
All that is fancy will crumple under the weight of a dime.
Spaceship of glory, of fame,
along a circuitous route to Mars.
Contemplate what I leave behind.
a god incongruously peaceful.
Beauregard decamps,
proudly,
horsemanship,
when it counts for glory,
where it lies.
The cacophony, of finality.
The heights,
are dust.
The pink streaks, fireworks.
where lavender lily grows stern.
The idea of the impossible?
Babbling water curves round the rocks,
in the endless wisdom of
the stream of eternity.
Where it is cold.
Surface of Mars, in our sites.
Can you bear the silence?
On what to subsist?
The visible breath of a
horse in winter, before the fire.
Hungry grows the field of grass,
under snow on its plains.
The Perfect Storm,
no question it is dire,
while death rides on a horse.
Be tepid and meek.
Craterous moon, docile creature.
I wait.
Beholden.
The currents, like strings, together as one voice.
The horizon propping up stars.
Awe slumbers, sweetly and silent.
Revealing.
Mere dust.
- By, James Legare, 9-30-2023, Mere Dust, a poem
An Ode to P. G. T. Beauregard, the latest of a long line of victims to a bankrupt ideology.
Photo by Ron Lach : https://www.pexels.com/photo/profile-of-man-in-fencing-suit-9643093/