i reached an age
of accumulation
my peddle          dipping in the spill
flipping over mouthy fishes of notion
gapery

peals of slaughter
palter in my gullety mind
a wet draft
accumulation     not storage
a wounding
working toward a mend

appeals of laughter
                draughts
               life ideals
and witty tongues
        of my lone made mortuary
it is a sorrow in here

if i don't ground this    amalgamation
                                     of thrift after thrift
i shall isolate

if i can manage simplicity
    toward wisdom
             gill
                         i could be staff
                         i could be use
                         i could even become to care