the limit to what I say
around and when I lay
in what seems like
my seventh grave; I have
many lives
to keep, and many scores
over which I weep
until each music note
becomes one elongated scream
pulled out piano wires
baring guts like a burst seam
whiling away time as if
this is the eighth dream:
each sonder and sundry
under the tips of my fingers, god is

just out of reach, six armed swordsman
feet, sixth life just spent and beat
as if I require murderous intent, to be
a swordsman, like god
omnipresent lines(I see them!) and then
vocation slipping between my
rigid fingers: when will
my time finally come? and when
will god slow down for this
mere mortal? it seems that
only time will tell