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Turning away, the frail old bones - a dimly lit prison
only window to the soul, light the pathway with
rosy incandescence, ring the heart's torch
with a drunkards heavy haze, content
again the leafy clouds embrace,
while dewy phrases uncoil,
like the hangman's
noose, softly
swirling
fragments of
the mind, thoughts
trickling into silver
goblets, and layered smiles
sickly sweet, like the dance of
bees swaying in summer's wispy wind,
with kings and gods, death and the goddess,
festooned in the midnights' gloaming, forever an
acrid tale for minstrels at the doorsteps of the unholy.