Fine colors, those roused
fat boiling with flo'r

Objections heard and knocking against
the good 'ole

"Why suffer this torment?"

to replies

"castrate the ego and forget
we all said it"

and they all felt it, ground up finely

attuned to the dissuasion of

having any sort of melange
blessed roused
blessed roux
to widen the hour.

Black eyes

pickled in the sky

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Some things are meant to be fought for

sanity

satisfaction.

Only it is the stubbornness that I endure

the nights to suffer

the words to suffer

the escape to smell

while I rot inside the decaying wrests

inside these scrubbed and pleaded walls

rather it be I

who is proud and bruised

than the world around me.

Victorious is paranoia
which tricks one to belief in doubt

the shaking ground, moving stone
wet and pat to dry

a solid foundation, sure footed sire?
surely one might embrace the idea

rocking ships are no place for bricklayers.

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I know that time is no doctor, no man of league

he is courting my graces

extended palms sideways

gauged temperature

and premature angers

resign to retire the evening
of trite manners of speaking

and hold tight the gentility

time is a doctor, but not a colleague

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