Ill, my white lies lay
along black-truth's way,
attracting the stranded
eyes of idle watchers.

Dropped so indifferent
in hands that lead up
to one man's simp'ring god,
our antique worlds meet

and shake. His wired head
sits uncomfortably
near us, and spits words
by life left unspoken.

They feed the moon full
with dwindling day, to flesh
out love and make our steps
half-brothers, again.