Printed in halos
the grim is rent from
the trepidation
of carneous fissures
and gold taps.

They, once rife with
engendered sleight,
would again know the day
of dead desire.

Demise follows us all,
we are just as bound to it in life
as we are bound to a surface
in gravity.

Again the damned speak
with necrotic tongue and
speech wavering.

Waifs to a twilight cause.

Derelict spans of salt and
expanses of anachronisms;
hurling through the days
for that one plight,
the death of deliverance.

It comes in a dream-like state,
in a rapping of doom
and derailment.

Sometimes I sit and spy
for I am the optical lens
of a right freight,
coasting through electric lights.

When I know again the name of
a prince, I shall then
be taken from the soil,
for gravity will bind me not
nor should I be bound by life.