An
occupation, a career
In
some sets
Truly
do, make the man
Apollonian
skylines
Contrast
the turbulent thrash
Within
the waves of Dionysian tides
Argots,
each, them all
Burnt
petals
Scattering
threads of sole
Seedlings
linger now
They
are strewn to sow,
Within some other soiled bed:
And hence, wherewithal corrodes calabash
While papyrus stains
That which
shall be penned
Regardless—
A blue book for the common
Cheaply proffered
Deeply resonating in
The karmic flesh Of
disillusioned kin
The
Hunters, they hunt
The
Farmer’s acreage wide
As
the Love’s
Play
promiscuity—in games of lust aside
In
the barns and cathedrals,
In
the fields unsowed
In
the trees above horizon lines
In
the alleys and sewers beneath
Born
unto a surname
Inflicted
with its toil
An
inheritance of talents—
You pray never to need
Centuries
ripple blistered deep
Freshly
painted eyes still see
The
same ills at folly,
Yet
play…has grown a conscious too
Those
men and children sleeping
Shivering
in their makeshifts
Relying
on the roving self-titled Samaritans,
To
bear alms
Instead
of spittle from gnashing teeth
All the while the maidens in stockings blue,
Prepare diligently
For the feasts their soirees expect them
to keep
