While basing the solemn unlanded prayers,
To the core of the tasteless sins;
Splitting the breath of early dust,
Drawn from the earth’s descending dreams.
Desked over the wrinkled routes at a day’s corner,
Where dwindling acceptances of refusals are shunned;
And a pions curse rustles through,
The withered spasm of prolonged decisions.
The warm ash between the stormed clouds,
Collected near the pricking edges of joy’s sleeved banks;
Nurturing the sorrow’s new similarities,
Plucking its morsels from love’s threshed land.
The sored fossils of heaven seem to,
Lean over the steep faith in sordid showers,
Flickering the thorns of the curly moon,
Loosening wearily the plaited ageing hours.