| Built on high, the scaffold’s walls are hinged to the fold
|
| The step slopes downward for none. |
| Their aims ran steep
|
| So where, then, must you have tryst?
|
| A crane of the neck- your crooked eyes rose to rest where the loft hung
|
| The weight you’ve sweat here will not lighten your load
|
| It gnaws on fragments of your tired soul. |
| Your line: an arc for progress
|
| Your sky: a roof. |
| Your gate is closed. |
| The way for you is plowed
|
| The cart you pull is culled from your bones
|
| In darkness ashes coat your lungs. |
| In silence there is only defeat
|
| Wisdom to you now is but a burden
|
| The breeze that broke you came from your throat
|
| No ire can keep burning. |
| No wrath is wrought by the lowly
|
| A slow step and you’ve only to wait until, claws bent
|
| Mind fogging, the next wind will topple you wholly
|
| Cold mire, deep sopping… climb up and pull your load
|
| The waves all broke, and sovereigns tend the falls
|
| The tide broke, a cloven splash, and sovereigns tend the falls
|
| As if rising again and again to be chopped at the knees was a gift
|
| The impetus will fade with dusk
|
| You sorrel nag, your coat is blood and rust |