Seventeen grains of sand
dispersed
and lay distinctly before
his watchful eye

Slicing fragmented pictures of
nether-vested
unimpressive
simplicities
Sparing him no lies to be endured

Eleventh hour sits uneasy
upon his feeble,
transgressive
natures
Nothing rising to meet him
as it always has--
and ever will

Mistress teasing, quite
un-revealing
Illusion clear with naught forgotten

Five-sided mintage yet falling
Task severed
unfulfilled
Over-pretentious
misguided
preaching of solemn
moments

Incoherent, softer tones
still the flesh with
falsified
gestures

Fool to himself
Lust for the unattainable
Desperation
predisposed.