BRAHMA by Rand Williams

Corralled inside my circle of profusion,

I blame slow loss of me on Lacks of Time—

An arena of boundaries wholly mine.

Trodding down waste of my own collection,

I close in so willfully with mistake.

Oh, impeded dreamer of the rye,

I live in solo gruntles of debate,

Stampeding headlong into the red

With steaming nostrils and dust kicking gait.

The matador greets my heavy horned head

With shish kabobs of pretentious mandragora,

Skewers searching for cubes of some self.

I’m a demigod of metaphors, 

Who wears mythology around the neck—

I offer up my measured rosary of prayer

Skyward to a host of flies.