A miss-chanced reconnection to the open flame
A forsaken introspection to the forgotten lane
A deep, burning intensity of smoulder and steel
A slow, boiling pot to wash away and feel
A miscarriage, a broken birth
Leave me pleading within this mirth
The filthy wretched, vile swoon
Of love-makers in the afternoon
Beneath midsummer night’s stars and starkless days filled with mourning and reprieve
The soft gallows beckon and help me up to circumvent the tragedy of the sieve
A hand calls through blood-drenched clothes
And wails out a cry for all whom it knows
A torn breathe though streaming eyes
Not mine, but yours as you glimpse my demise