silent, that bastard
and right
when least most
expected.
so sold,
so, infected
the convections
of overlooked yesterdays,
the fix,
nice,
and quick
for to quake
awake
the off cast fever-
 
to take,
and bleed believer-
 
to weave there,
or, here,
or anywhere-
 
to feel faith,
(understated
at least)-
 
to feel great
without chemical abandon.
to be oure,
plebian branded
and yet stranded,
estranged and aloof
of thine own veritable
provings,
the mood, swings
and waltzes
until
in finds truth in
faulty.
 
please,
not me, it cries,
and in such anguish,
something like ‘dies’
occurs.
 
a few words
over decomposing matter,
(or splatter,
if concerning cause
closely)
 
a few
words,
in any other tongue
be scattered sounds
and grumbles.
were we to be so
humbled
and advantageous of the
courageous
we’d dreamt in.
 
if better be
the way,
why is it that
I stay?
fear’s withered hand
creeps over,
while,
I hope for
words
to say