(Foto: lostoneself.deviantart.com)
To stick back the
Vague crocks of loss
But I often hear
The barks of a naked, weird god
From an ancient fresco of feelings
And he always finds my hand
Sliding on silver noons
Picking the crimson threads of being.
I hang on
The sovereign present
Elegant and speckled
And I hear it
The march of a diluted sequence
A resonant rictus of time
Then I'm caught in a spasm of healing
And I turn my eyes from a night eternal
To a rat in blinding light.
