The Lay of the Loam

Passing by the new-churned
eucalyptus mulch exuding
much strange perfume,
the next, from mnemonic ooze
of two-score years,
does Charlie, yeoman-like, exhume.

Upon the sharpened stake
each time (questionably, but)
without fail does Chuck
himself most naturally impale.

The pain comes, somehow still,
as half-surprise and
we can easily surmise
that, as life flows from him freely,
then whimpers he, but barely audible,
as if he half-suspected
the summed up scars of years
(though himself conquers
each/every time his deepy fears)
might allay the initial, unconfected spike
of pure-white pain
which never assumes
the fickle form of pleasure,
as splashes out his truest treasure. (love)

And though the evidence lay
like a seeping war-glove incarnadine
on drifty dreams of snow
(a pristine white most renewable)
Charles can fathom no other course
than the hapless expenditure
(in molten dribbles from the crucible)
of his little well-sprung wealth
that ever over-bloats
his human heart's account-
a direct deposited line
long established from the
supra-abundant fount,
the one Good, True, Beauteous Source.