i'm bad luck. struck sad and oblate weary, dedicated to the swearing ground. chivalric pulp, my pages don't bind like they used to.
rhyme me sad. adder fluent, sistines vaunt these heads of mine. but wise enough to feel these molecules murmer and mouth the corvid in the wellwater.
annihilated profiles in my coming wake. i am bad luck and prose. slipped my shadow, i walk a bare life. not broken anymore. not here all the way.
don't canter. never could. haven't loved. will
of a ghost. hell, i see ancestors trailing behind me in a mass of quadruped brutes black as the day i was born and sounding a great horn made of gold and unprophecy, babblings of a river older than talk.