UpOn That Rocky Crag,
On High With The Founding Ghosts Of Marshes… Once To Be As Kings,
With Questions Travelling Across The Dire Breaking,
Where No Copper Could Be Thrown Up To Cover,
At Times To Eclipse And Quicken,
The RestLess Paramount AFlame… Then To Be As Rover…
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Treading CoastLines And Then To LaundryLines,
Semaphore Sophomore Surf…
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Waves From The TollBooths,
Loose Like MilkTeeth…
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For Crickets To Be Ruled By Cicadas,
Examined As Patients… Willing To Escape,
From Triangles And Bermuda Shorts,
SmokeStacks And Coal-Chambers…
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The Ocean Blue,
Under Bridges And Spreading As Bed-Sheets…
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Spooling Its Thread Around Fossils Of Expectations Held Great,
Passed On By As Faces Change…
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Those Whose Faces Change…
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Those Faces Have Changed.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.