Things don’t fit no matter how hard you split
The tongue of calcified speech upon the rider’s beach
The sun beams drift, shedding gold in bits
Slowly, in a fleet, shy away into sleep
Things don’t sleep, so full of deceit
They hector like priests to a room full of cheats
With scalpels do they pry apart the proud miseries of the heart
They rejoice naked, frothing at the mouth
Upon spotting the long-buried bone of truth.
