A wraith in Monday’s spoon,
I’m pale to start again,
Winter’s dark in day lit June,
I’m maimed by blackened game.  

My skin so deeply grooved
With days of gritted muck,
I forget the face I wore in youth
On such temporal crutch.

With lonely else but waiting,
I’ve yet the time to count,
Eighty-eight in lines remaining,
As the bright of day, dims out.  

-BRD