Tan bark tales
A man made
From marble games
And silly superstition.
From his moments,
Acknowledging the weight of birth
And coming first
And ending up so broken
In inertial rollercoast of cost; a coat stained
With endless explanations
And demands to lift
This solemn drift
To life beyond the ghosts of wayward
Sins, and sinners,
Itty bitty
Bits of pith,
Imprisoned in the lines of
Drawn provisions.
In this smithy of immense redemption,
And the toiling tortures of regret I mention,
Am I obsessed within my depths;
And mad for heaping have-nots,
And style dripping mind
So blind to what resides
But still it stands
Demands to ride
The Mountain, in an outing of the spirit
In sincere appearances,
A sign that's worth it,
Fine inhabitants you'll find
Unearth them.
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