The tilted day do ruminate so slowly on its fate.
How shall one dim time’s lasting set display towards mourning?
If filled is eye with circumstance whose show pours forth such splendor bourn; what
causative power shears the moon and stars so crisply?
This night, this bright and vibrant night of squalor?
What dream has been squandered on this day?
A time of 9, of 12 of 45?
All men huddle for warmth against such numbers – all dreams are answered at 10 o’clock on
a Sunday Night when you question still the division of the week; where upon fibers strewn
with cells of being, rub your feet to
Feel the static of a million souls replete – in wonder, in longing, in spirit flesh this
day, in all that needs to say – it falls from past decay – it hangs still in hallway – the
rain pelts it to a fro – upon entry all evil reigns supreme – then slowly, surely it
passes in the mist – the gist of circumstance, the measure of all must dance – must move
against the plane – all grain must have its day, to wail, to roil in the wind before
chance cuts it down.