goodbye goodfellowed architect,
a grimace felled now summer cries a blacksmith.
wrought iron gates of commune,
gathers sulpher on asylums\' steps of canopy and cluster,
fathers kettledrum with heels of silent years;
this cruel climb to the stubborn chimes of innocence and grief,
in shell of ice to the suns shine with four winds of rock,
as syrup clocks too dry to drip our man-cave,
slants kissing hips of tigers on a poachers egg,
in headless winds as guilty as the crowing nest;
through needles eyes our cloak and dagger sleep,
preys telling bones a white-lied cloak of slaughter.
disaster chains herself to beds of viscount rose,
decomposed but running still with tides of crouching mothers,
where knights with pens on paper scribble menace;
so sudden comes the flame of deep regret.
the self-expressed, the green sands for the natures watch;
this beast we seek to race the running tide,
her waters wounds our gateway to the cyprus moon.
too soon to live forever in the asphalt dome?
kiss then tell how tall must towers climb;