A strip of pond breaks pink cartwheels of ice
Navigating wind to find life without stretch-marks,
A Wednesday morning patheticism, the will for vice
Interweening barely approachable harps of flesh
To a promise with the Sun, an eternity of blind mice
Embodying artificial concepts breathing out mechanisms.
Once more patience sinks to a pointless death,
A bleak laziness is the tan from a season,
The only justified retirement is our endless youth
And the sickly rotation of mirrors, we are the only one
To digest the first and last of man\'s thought, the grand final breath
Rising to a martyr of self-tragedy ever burning the Sun.
I apologise to the howl hung over,
Evoking the spirit, a beggar thief, a tribe
Of effervescent orbs, each a new Dawn, heart-lined ether
All\' mingling within the erosion of bronze we baptize
And praise in a relief of grunts stranding our lost endeavour
Swooning imminence to the creak of an hour impartial from our cries.
The purple inferno is just a hut
Where milky caps finally reverie their dead ends,
The sunspoken trust, only broken by an alchemist
Who with sudden loss of friends actualising uncertainties
Could only consist of fits of despair, creating the missed
Tragedy we are, stalking our sittings, never quite touching the skies.
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