Bifurcated, broken thing,
longing to belong again,
hangs with hangmen from a string
along a wall of wallowing.

Speak of pain, he speaks no more
but rasps his voice against the door.
Save me, sir, what is in-store?
Salesmen smile and take the floor.

Cauterized with spit 'til dry
lies the spider with the fly.
Of one, blood made two one-alike.
Awry, awry, what's left is right.

Lonesome at last what alone begins,
ten hundred is but ten handfuls of ten.
The hunted, hungered will soon bends
as all are lost as all will end.