I speak thy name so often, you’d think I’d know the spell; but so help me, I swear I do; I
saw it this sullen
Mourning standing in the cue – the gaunt brother of commerce’s inclusion aching with
regret; I could smell it on his breath – Lord, the world devoid of love drains my brothers
blue – they seek you in such vacant places – they see you where they are, not: a subtle
telling sub-plot of longing and regret; oh how they adorn such phases: the raincoat, the
cup of coffee, the last great event of yearning; the wrong turn not taken; for all is
gone, forsaken – in the void that seeks consume them one, two or three.
This is the last remark that can be spoken on the subject, for to lend it power is to doom
those brothers bold who beat thy rhythm true – those saints who ply a trade unique – to
stare at Godly men’s best intentions and render them oblique.