I'm sifting out the undesirable through isles of plaqued teeth
and siphoning what I'd like to keep.
You've been reduced to your finest gristle, marrow, and meat.
You're best is wedged in the brackets between
and plucked out with the stem of an oak leaf.

Just as one drop of rain cannot be blamed for the shower
among the guilty masses he'll cower.

We all will go;
down a narrow terminal which marries the
so many million pursuits diverging,
and the one common end.

Precise and glad;
that shy abrasion as I graze my resolution.
Approaching eagerly and just missed it.

I esteem my longing only in so far as I can get a hold of its matter, anyway.
So that i'm perpetually dispossessed and still elated.  

What's the matter with me mama?

Why is it only me who can hear the
bawling shriek of a finishing orchestra?

I am harboring a million desires
that I haven't the means to acquire
and so they dissipate.

But, excuse me,
I have got to concentrate

on the song I heard while dreaming
before I forget it.

The one million pursuits sing that;
I am being deprived of a thing I have a right to.

Oh, forget it.

Where do I put it all?
Something common to call on?

No, not at all.
Im forced to cultivate a virtue which has not yet been founded.

****** fastens around the gull constricting,
he's a sweltering scarf with an ill temper.

Barbarity and terror as an accessory to his will.
An accessory that is adorning me.

The scheme is choked at birth,
shame to have ever made it past audacity.

Passion is such a nasty endeavor
and should be swiftly finished;
not ever refined to be more than a temporary embarrassment.

In his grasp I trust.
If I would like to have a common thing to call on
then I must.

I'll spend some time mitigating my ineffective ambitions and exploiting the others.

All fervent works are washed away by this deflection,
and i've configured a will without good direction.

Now without a channel;
Ill be delivered from my suffering once Ive found the words to say how I have suffered.

He's lost his latest aspiration like
a heifer has lost her calf in a museum of oak.
Her eager hollering-calls in their undying remedy
are all heard by me and received readily.

More than one young humor is scrambling toward her wail
to be fully embraced.

Blind and wild, I chase her shrieks for a great distance,
quickly closing in on the difference.
Until, at a blooming green site, I meet with the other young humor.

From a clenched snarl,
my tired, heavy eyelids are unfastened harshly like a crusted shut drawer.
Saliva oils a rusted hinge and lets my stiff maw dangle, slack.
Critically emaciated,
and now face to face with the other young humor.

I'm sifting out the undesirable through isles of plaqued teeth
and siphoning what I'd like to keep.
You've been reduced to your finest gristle, marrow, and meat.
You're best is wedged in the brackets between
and plucked out with the stem of an oak leaf.

Now the merit she's nurtured
will contribute to my make.
Rather than finding my own virtue
I take, and I take.

I could thrive on the clear river and the plant decay
rather than stealing away a head from the forest thrice a day.
Knowing this to be true,
I still find myself in some deeply necessary allegiance with you.

And so I am basking in her holler as one would in the sun,
and doing so until her glory is done.

Done by me,
and done so readily.

Without the reassurance of a sweet by and by,
how should I bring a frail body forth in stoic motion
towards an end it will never attend?

Return me to my valley.

Faith is a valley
where rolling hills bend like still waves;
reaching for the heavens and quitting in intervals.

These are the mountain walls of dying,
reeling down to form a divot.

Sit me in it.

With nothing left of me to steep up from the cradle I shape,
I turn to this sea and I say, "unmake me".

These hillside submissions are all a sanctuary for the battered pride
that let us idealize strife, and silence the nature which revolts against our exertion.

With my reason bending to the will of you
i'm deprived of a thing i've had a right to.

Life is now not much more than something which approaches a second one.

My beloved only living ever.

Salivary slick coats the fist,
varnishing a flesh mitt.

Gnawing kicks up a flesh sheet,
which proclaims bare knuckle under the abrasion.

And as thin water cuts through slobber,
it is washing away the guilt and fodder.

The fist as a righteous conviction which disputes the gull;

does the guilt come up along with and in the fodder?

With a vice that is infinitely vindicating
I wash my hands of it.