Inside cell of 16

By 11, I thought I'd have it down by 15, But by 16 and a sour sunday morn, And daisy chains foiled into the moor, And hands that tighten but ne'er lighten, Hands that strangle, stitch, and liven. Of ties that wrangle, withhold, hang o'er the handle, And toe-tipp'd kisses of kids with scissors, Incisions of misses by razors and flesh fissions. And slaps of fathers that formed tender swine, borne a brat, t'tender the bar o'wine, And quaint affections that form'd none conscience. Greyed, spurned eyes grown affray, blotting boils and sores, and Loaned love t'be lost along the way. And all ails of child, trebled the gall of blackened bile, tendrils of Denial t'caress the carcass, and withdraw. E'er unsupervised in sullied superstition, bled to th'core of frailing admonition, And hitched a hind of loops and bunnies, Ne'er t'tie and stead, but t'tumble into the rabbit. O curs'd the cocoon in biblical serpentine, O'riddles and remedies, and stewards in cemeteries, Led to call and sit and stew, Waiting, waiting, and awaiting Sunday grace anew. And sixteen drawls in th'stench of wine, And sixteen sings the sickly hymm and diagnostic chime, Of the flatline. And sixteen awaits the mellow Monday morn. And sixteen waits 'till there is none left t'mourn. 30//4//2025