a stream of consciousness
the railway worker decapitated swift as the axe falls at the hands of an adroit executioner
he dies like a cypher his destiny oblique carved in the cool fragrance of death
the air swirls with fragile snow impregnated with blood
they melt with hot passion
Anna can see her fate as she meets the lover of her early death
they dance swirling at the same grim ballroom amid executioners at birth
en pointe
the crescent moon tips out Venus at the equinox of night like a fisherman spools his dragnet of death
and tears drown them in an avalanche
their only lode star now some fate prefigured on the converging parallels of errant trains trembling side to side in noisy terror
cyrillic icons lose nothing in translation the masterpiece as universal as music itself
even as the Russian Count spoke exquisite French
the slavic Bard the moral voice of Russia
dies at an ironic station named Astapovo
a claivoyant’s distance from Yasnaya Polyana
or a clairaudient to deaf men
Levin and his transverse universe are weaving his own life as the wheels of a railway train rotate slowly at first then seem to spin backwards as they accellerate in the confusion of our lives, then are sped and spent at the end
his life intersects Anna’s like dual strands of DNA then separate as fibrils teased apart as easily as breath itself, or her earthly body torn to ghastly shreads and ribbons
they whisper the future all too well …
“Lord forgive me ! she said feeling it impossible to struggle. A peasant muttering something was working at the iron above. And the candle by the light of which she had been reading that book filled with anxieties, deceptions, grief and evil, flared up brighter than ever, lit up for her all that had once been darkness, sputtered, grew dim and went out for ever … “
Flynnpoetry 