And will the Wayward pass?
A lantern was lit and Carthage
filled their cups
to the brim.
A false-hide of red faces
to let forgiveness pass
and join the ******-- a raven
to beat the window, a winged
stratum to remain eaten
and wasted in the mouth.

It is not an oath, an ebb
that hovers when enchanted.
It is a tongue swollen
It is sorrow stretching from
the back-bone and a soul left
to live,

just to live.