equinox.
of equal length both starmer
and the pitted stones of drought.
self doubt itself no ordinary thing
when sings our Cinderella through the comfort of a chair.
all we as hunched as coal
between the master and the corpse,
each line rehearsed yet never understood.
how the minutes of each mind that govern life
from pedestal to the white foam of a yawn,
now stands erect the dull wings of a rook.
through book and curse each chapter
preys upon the laughter lines
of grandeur steeped in heritage
from hollow mouths to the comfort of abyss.
our sun-dial seeking purpose
walking barefoot on the seven blades of grass.
the final cut.
the second view that taunts the eye
that flaunts it\'s algae sideways
to the pigeon coup where breeds austerity.
there are four bald men to argue with
here among the daisy-chains and draughts;