Interloper,
O’ what have thee made
of me?
Beautifully tragic
And devilishly clean
Sticklers for
perfection,
Conjugating all perils
to pillars tall
The sacred space of
air
Bears witness, as time
is amputated by the wind
Stale diamond flecks
of salivation
Seeping stealthily from
the creviced cheek
of all who dares to
enter
Turn round; Gather ye
horses
Do not look back;
hurry fast
For like barnacles attracted
to the external frame
Interlopers, once
adhered to rules as well—
Never leaving without inducing
the most severe measurements of strain.
No comments:
Post a Comment