The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Nebuchadnezzar's Clay

Hurry, hasten
to stack sheaves upon the pyre,
the jubilee of transience,
stoke the fiery chrysalis
melt the molten bones
into a pupa of plasma
linen like flesh rent to dross
the remaining light adance
with the colors of fluidity.

Is unadorned immortality ugly or just imageless?

Who dares judge the patterns cast
mutters only to itself in
barbaric unintelligibility
for this is the clay
that makes our minds refract
the tapestry of timelessness,
our ancestral chasuble,
the crown from which we
scintillate and shower
untethered imaginings of
a glorious ascent.
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