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?