Startled ends, the consummation
Of hours, last days sparkle, begin,
I was made and I, was cast away,
Unsaved, born of oceans drowned
Pressures unwaved, unfounded
Yet strung alive, blood draining,
Torn inside and your voice, supple-
Clarion, your little hands roping mine
Subtle vines, tangled in unrest
Provisioned, sweet song, poison
Wined, what sorcerery, what shame
To forget ones grounded name,
To live, now only in shadow, sun
Only in shade where every room
Remains—
Empty, the golden light washed
Out in the seeping tides of ruin.
Though I was spent open, betrayed,
Always waiting, deaf hope listened
For deaths' floating midge of feathers
Drop, wish I never knew, never ran,
Came by you, never saw the mirrors
Ends, only wish for peace, day lights
Dull untold innocence.

Adjectives continue
their downward spiral,
with adverbs likely to follow.

Wisdom, grace, and beauty
can be had three for a dollar,
as they head for a recession.

Diaphanous, filigree,
pearlescent, and love
are now available
at wholesale prices.

Verbs are still blue-chip investments,
but not many are willing to sell.

The image market is still strong,
but only for those rated AA or higher.
Beware of cheap imitations
sold by the side of the road.

Only the most conservative
consider rhyme a good option,
but its success in certain circles
warrants a brief mention.

The ongoing search for fresh
metaphor has caused concern
among environmental activists,
who warn that both the moon and the sea
have measurably diminished
since the dawn of the Romantic era.

Latter-day prosodists are having to settle
for menial positions in poultry plants,
where an aptitude for repetitive rhythms
is considered a valuable trait.

The outlook for the future remains uncertain,
and troubled times may lie ahead.
Supply will continue to outpace demand,
and the best of the lot will remain unread.