Gushing rain's a
scurrying season,
plying woe with loosened tiles,
detaching once proud roofs.
From whose past has this rain dance been arrainged ?
All we stand for is porous and howling wind,
a gambit of ill suited omens'
hectoring guise to scour
our cracked chimney pots.

the cost of poverty
a life without meaning
the flash and gone epiphany
without strength
the men, no generals gate
and dying glades of nightly tremor
conquested virgins leastly heard of
the shrill visions of 1/2 off
capitalized lives in a pre arrainged style
accredited by hitlers goals
to escape as the foretold
that you were not of his puppeteering