These precious people have been pushed to the point – anointed yet utterly unable
To search to find a way out from beneath alabastered feet, and we do salute their truthful endeavour, this constant treasure rusted and brutally combusted
Within – the absolute heartbreaking convolution supreme
A beautiful disaster and we simply
Want for aforementioned way to be momentarily, always, painted in quicksilver gold
They hold
No rules, no such derogatory side orders, no pin-pricked listener’s ear
Because they are we- taking us apart to replace it all
Each with a piece of minutiae detail
Snail
Pace wins
The race- trace your slowened step
Everywhere
They are the none too lacklustre, entrusted and chosen
One’s to pump
Life right through us at painstaking will
Even
When we think we are undeniably winning they manage to satisfy our parts where a hole in
Our pouring heart
Lies
Yes, good, good honest Poets are the heart and soul of our eyes
