Senility inches down a stapled tongue,
iron, incarnadine, affluent and young.
Fingers slaved through earth are phoenix moments
quelching timeless labels owed to thoughtless potence.
Arid arms abreast declare strong-winded sympathy
and with trembling loquacity ensnare a mix of me;
a filcher's whispers drape my nape in dauntless filigree.
Founded in apertures of honor or honesty,
luck and lunacy flourish by gifts of apostasy.
Dirty bones bound in rattled homes to waifs in stead,
tawdry crones with scattered drones, awake and undead,
for inquisitive cowards to roll their eyes away from.
A beggar once came to me with his back to the sun,
and said, "If I work when you're looking I'll never be done."
Mellow is the willow tree in windless humidity,
exhausted yet unyielding with skinless humility.
I see gallows melting into piles of clothes and blood,
clutching rifted souls and smiles painted with mud.
When planets lose their footing I know we'll meet again.
When heaven knows its place is not to beg for our amends,
and you'll strike me, alone and cunning, without and end.