Zoriti

The creases in his palms

Chug and click with brown blood, 

Under floorboards, in walls 

And our fantasies flood 

The brain pruned beyond faith; 

A halo whispers shrouds, 

Crows coil to the huge wraith 

Buzzing softly in crowds; 

Do all systems lead to

Chronos? This maroon course 

Sticking like rust all through 

And forming life, the source 

Of Creativity? 

The Fool’s Eternity?