Find in the Burial

Find in the Burial

Bags and chunks
Were left in the dungeons of San Leo,
Home of the ghosts 
Of twenty seven monks.
It took a vulgar yank 
To pull from the hypnotic stare
And achieve
The needed conciliatory clasp,
Reaching
Sober fact's farthest reaching concerns,
Breaking universal disagreement
With Michelangelo's unfriendly city.
Yes, 
Pity forced me 
To calculate the outrage of 21st century's 
Darkest cloud,
Blowing it past memory's dunes,
Past ancient fragrance,
Underneath the Chaldean's cold moon.
A stone there
Hid a ruby ring
Capable of capturing the confidence
Of those 
That met its gaze;
To settle the storms,
those encroachers with thirst to mettle,
Of their remaining days.