where hides my Muse in these potted plants of clay?
fire and the work of others home their Sundays,
sent sleeping to the chambers of the wag.
my imported limp from the countrside of Thomas,
as distant as he is and just a stranger on a page,
where comes and goes this sudden rage of beast?
in my hornets\' nest where shapes a brothers brawl,
from deep inside the cornfield of the locked grass,
hides archers pencilled bows with eyes untied and breathless,
trades hourglass for uniform to blend with marching sadness.
how many times I have argued with the insects on my chest.
how strong the spiders\' heart as it crawls my fennels\' web?
how I marvel every Sunday,
the weathers\' morning pages as they climb a higher ground,
from the darkened depths of solitude
to the acid on my tongue;
it is here my strings of symphony cuts\' glass a shade of wood,
in honour of deception on the banners of the sun;
how many times I have cradled hearts on my blanket hands,
as cold as the Jack Frost vampire teething sandscripts\' salted hair,
I have no sea-horse for the riding of Virginias\' long lost waves,
just one speck of blood on the blunt side of the sword,
to carve her name on the landslide of my wrist;
to co-exist with the phamptons\' of abyss!
one too many Sunday mornings in the misspelt room,
as water falls on the passageways of the dead walls,
comes tailored veins of manuscript for the strangers\' passing by.
truth and lie together in a golden pond of safety,
as the ears of the passing day stand still and dress the naked moon.
it is still too bright to sleep with the shapeless stars,
it is only when the sun dries,
do I fall asleep and dream of the liquid gold;