slums, all years; and the stars which rise
console you if they would. words are said
which sully with fears their fled disguise.
and the night must blood the lunacies it lives.
to these faceless passions, i make word thief:-
even so distant, i can taste the grief,
bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gasp.
and the mind must bury the metronomic strides
of the dark and black; and these daily tides
of the dead and dreamt must shorten faith.
the sinuous glide of this thoughtless wraith
will live, or else no ruling schemes begun?
lightning strikes too many mourning times
against this clock and its xerox chimes.
More at https://jimbellamy.simplesite.com.