Tempered In the Rage
There are no gentle movements
into a calm goodnight
there is a rage
of intemperance
in the stupidity
of attempting to mark,
as to be in memory
there is no remembrance
as one I arrived bare
maggots my butlers,
devouring each and every
shedding,
eventually
being their main
course
and a life in circles moves
a thousand years
shall pass in the spinifex,
the dust shall blow
across the page
of my existence
scratching out all
I ever was
generations vortex from the future,
and stretch through to brush my mind
A memory before their time
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