A liturgical darkness pains the

wriggling web of a praying star.

Hardwon quietude differentiates

obsolete centers to contrive the

offing.

Timeless hands go up in deflection,

as to abort the scene.

Whose spelling could not boast a

mouth synchronous with them.

The growth spurt of insult to injury

topples a bucket of well water

down the throat.

Alas, at morning...alert me to my

stable, that I may act in accordance.