Into Exile

cold wars and silvery spoons make me solemn in the self-closing eyes always priggish as a desolate diver I blindly follow the northbound shoals hoarse in the black iris I'm a tipsy toad howling in heaven with frigid manners resurrected again in a parquet parlour of colliding sighs the highland highwaymen set up bonfires in instinctive phobia of the uninvited mirage rural gravestones salute the lightning with tremendous pride still frivolous over the glum expressions during prohibition I smile with a frown when my chapped lips touch salty chips into exile to shock, to astound