waiting with a helmet,
cape and spear. Trades of the surface
all banished from possibility now.
The shine of furniture,
vibration of hidden knives,
the swinging chains of fortune
all carrying a meaty hook.
From the shade
of disheveled metaphysics,
the gathered stalks
grown from a seed of blood,
my mustache exits reality
the rhyme-raked mirror remains.
No comments:
Post a Comment