Only Until

how long it seems

since gone the bruise of impoverished phlegm.

and how quick the rush

of Crows feet over concrete eggs;

her mind was my Manson

my mansion of thought.

with bent spine. with crooked walk

too straight and tall was I to freely observe;

since all of this

a century more must follow.

as I glide down each aisle of March

united and tied still to tradition

my shared words with each rock that strikes

still argue a silent retreat;

I was the soldier to your beaten door.

you were my Nightingale to my rabbit paw.

only then did this take great gains away

while we?  we suckle the breast of the aspiring sycamore;

how sad it seems

since our simple became illicit?

I had dined on your tattooed toad

as you belched with the great north wind.

but even with a tasteless gin

I cared not for the stench of satirical whit!

no peaches yet have cured these ills;

on Purbeck Stone where all is still.

still voices haunt our Evening Hill.

that is, of course, or as it seems

or so it seems, only until: