Deep in the pits of my soul is the source

            Of the chattering
                        Chattering mind; till its hoarse

I have such care for the friends that I keep
But no returns of care does my scythe get to reap

Pouring in heart with no
            Reflection
Bleeds at your being

A slow secretion
            Of patience
               And care

Till bled so dry
The care isn’t there

The End
    Is not my towering horror

But a slow bleeding process
      With care

Out of order