What A Price To Pay,
For Subtlety To Boast Constellations,
A Drowned Out Cry From My Crawl-Space Bricked From Youth,
Where A Spindle Might Draw Out Blue Before Red,
And I Be Made To Sit If Not With Thoughts To Denmark,
Then To Barricade My Self From Humiliating Clarity,
As With Equal Steps Towards Failure To Be Recognized...
...
UpOn Such Innocent WoodWork Might I Be Crowned By Old Bitter Spite...
...
While Danceing Betwixt Each Shelf... A Worm Amongst Words,
Cherished With A Communion That May Sweep BloodLines For Pearls,
Straying Not From A Witness... As My Jaw Be Clenched In Sweetness Lost,
That WithOut The FaithLess Muse To Shatter The Ruse Of False Truth,
Those In Its Distillery May Be Cask'd InTo The Shadows,
Only To Bathe In Its Light.
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