is the files of love
the needs of a husband
a friend and an enemy
to rewire the wisdom
in fates hands, costing your lies
in traps of leisure, a woman grows
hurt wasted water
opposite of her buildings intent
to hold the promises she paid with
and against empty well
the plummeting death
before seeing the dishonest water
breaks of vengance
at how her mothered earth
was mine
and in my mind unhanded was loving myself
sheltering infinite sorrow and suffering beauties
well beauties joyful surrender to herself
left with only empty trinkets of paperworkings
held in blind ears and numb eyes

that work was not left to be done
only admired
the irish write the frame after the french debate reason
american is covered in fatigue's
hints of irish palor

our languishing theatre?
this is your lifetime
not a positive quixotic yet?