When The Fountain Flooded

Lost in fortune of find.
Of fortune favors the unfold.
Maybe you aren't lost at all.
In this space of mine.
What favors the bold.
When the fountain flooded.

In tempered spaces of mine,
was there space to find.
A pool all but mine, let
alone a fountain for me
to hide. This drink of mine.
To protude to lips for the last time.

With embers or with metals.
With melted stars or crushed meteors.
With blank bowl it's markings of steel.
Clay dirt in it's wheel.
The fountain drinks in the spirits renew.
To refine the fortune of the few.

A fountain
out in space spitting
out elements for it's
harvest.

In this exact eyes
if the mold is flooded.
Then is fountain pure.
Is the poison all it fed.
Was the darkness met with light
of merely this planet, the sun whatever
feeds. Night is an illusion.
Day is tempered shadow.
For your procuring sensation out.

Maybe you're not lost at all.
Maybe the fountain is merely flooded.
All the tempest at loss for words.
All the words lost for thought.

In this bedlam of god rest.

Vote for this poem