And what
to make it through the day
thus comes
to enfold the flood
that inspiration's future holds
and cures bold
as Isabel beckons blood
And onward
she trifles taunting
slow speed while
all the while
a deep vengeant speed ignites
in the eye
the hurricane waits awhile
Toward mass
encouraged by the daunt
of everyday wait
it wrestles with
the sleeping core
and outward doth
decay the gate
Belly burns
of spit forth steam
from upon potatoes boil
if off a certain
wind does blow
it is not a nation's toil
throughout the night
the earth doth shake
and creates a renter's foil
but alas does mock
and soon consume
the common owner's soil
Soon the bridge
will quake and roll
from beneath the feet
of all who stood
such close a guard
upon the street
of all the common good
Waiting now for night to fall
the eager pilgrim dread
the slow procession coming forth
of all the unheard dead
Out cast a spell
to entreat the old
of all of those consumed
as one who knows
not of the weight
of the undertaker's gloom
And then set forth
to entreat the source
of the spirit yet and pure
bedecked in linens
white and solid
shaped as of a pearl
And onward come
the sweetest pink
to alert of impending night
that settles forth
a red dusk rare
that culminates delight
The bubbles of
the acid come
to create a steady blur
brought forth
by pale moon yellow hope
that only few have heard
The speaking of
such whispers soft
of secret and absurd
the secret thoughts
of those that creep
in ancient angles long
a melancholy mournful tune
of those that are old
and gone
