1-48

Old clogged boots, one man left standing near,

Two ragged tools, sordid laced, backward fire.

No treasure made, hidden maw worships fear,

I begin to drag, marrowed-claw in mire.

 

1-45, Cesarean and dire,

Knew you once, fooled me twice, stark reminder.

Severed veins tied, a husk of one’s gyre,

Churned Orange, Rotten Pink, lay beside her.

 

Tired eyes, broken face, engrailed decider.

With Summer’s dew, an open wound, charming romance;

In scent, whittled prowess, fragile farrier.

If I knew sooner, to prove one more chance.

The crescent open hole asks for its feeding.

 

Not one, not two, the husk left me reeling.

1-48, I took my leaving.