I.

Prideless, they tore railroad men’s brown *******
lurking the thirsty Kenyan banks.
Red moonlight sluiced from brambles and linen skins
pressing upon tawny flesh, igniting fire of feline eye.

Imperious, they patrolled the union jack encampment
lingering in shadows of long-labour’s dreamless sleep
until the smoldering campfire morning
when one hundred hammers lean in one hundred corners.

II.

Maneaters in glass houses can’t throw stony glances—
the power to haunt having run off with the ghost.
Now, they reign over the acrylic savannah
sneering—not out of regal disdain, but mild discomfort
from dust mites nitpicking at tautly taxidermed pelt.

Rebel eyes that halted an empire now cast
dull marble stares at fossils in the floor
and derailed trains of un-terrified school-children
near a hissing robot-box called Mold-A-Rama
spewing magma into plastic tyrannosaurs.

My oh my dear handmaiden
The brevity of your eyes is a childish curse, but
Long is the chill of a single winter night
A basement full of taxidermed trophies
Death and dust fill flat stale air
Lying in a corner of silence
Bound in electrical tape
Gagged by a silk tie
There is no rhyme or reason
Or meaning to it all
It is the addition of numbers and variables
Multiplied by powers
Do you not understand the color of sunsets
The beauty of a passing day
Human passing is not a thing of beauty
It is a quiet tune playing on a record
The sound of cold water dripping from pipes
The feeling of sleep washing over me
With a thousand angels
Waiting to carry me on