A poor dead house
simpering in the gallows
of a just regret.
an uncoupling of a sun
from it's moon.
leaning in the southern north
of a belligerent east.
the paint is failing.
and the windows face oblivion...
but the staircase
leads to heresies
so beautiful, the march hare screams -
and all whimsy folds.
the old things youthen
in the marsh of our misgivings
and the rooms are bare
save one hope
choking the stars
for a god.
every song
one note.
