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

Pace wins
The race- trace your slowened step

They are the none too lacklustre, entrusted and chosen
One’s to pump
Life right through us at painstaking will
When we think we are undeniably winning they manage to satisfy our parts where a hole in
Our pouring heart

Yes, good, good honest Poets are the heart and soul of our eyes