Eyes do see the mystery of stoic conceit
an acoustical noodling or youthful brooding
never given back to me,
my craggy voice
precocious rise,
never the less a leach upon the dead
I
sacrosanct lie,

decomposing words of dead poets
horrific:

an aura of
trance in elements of infantile exuberance
my lyric prose a protuberance,
an instrument
played at least as much
as i sought the rhymed.