Ode to the Epithet

Few words are more powerful, Epithet,
than you, your attitude antiatic,
(a word Marti coined for his verses,
syncretic but postulates of a timber
its roots, leaves, branches, bough and petal,
combines a reflection in candle light
Phosphorous greening a wick in time
brightens fulminating an existence
a je ne sais quo, what do you call it?
In shorthand a Human spirit sandalled
wearing a weave of deciduous silk
alive in the dust powder crystal sands
impressed on the surface's hallowed veil
as it is lifted betrays history
sings into its profoundly heared beating
the pulse of an incubus cautioned yellow
for fear of forgetting, remembered rail..