Did you seen it then, the scars. Like primrose fluttered onward, danced and tracked along some soul's arm like the needle's victim stained. In lines like text on crumpled paper. Skin and bones a mire and swamping low and down through dross and then unseen, it all in shambles. Paper hands of blistered marble run their path along the cutdry surface, searching, sightseen, fawning able hard and seeking life. I couldn't see it. Was it there. And did it rise. Did the sun rise, was it there. I couldn't say.

Was it limber, was it fleshmade was it amber cutting eyelids through and bathing shuteyes bloodshot, was it there and where were you. I was lost and stuck some yester keeping close to walls in darkness seeking light. I was Qoheleth and Solomon, in fiction and in truth, awash in mercy not and fleeting. I am latchkey, I am barrows, I am tumulus aboveground hiding blackness. I am not and wasn't. Was there light yet to be seen, was all then cluttered. Did you see it. Is there sound. I could not say. Let not it fall, I seldom pray. And keep it shuttered. Let it float on seas of splendor, drown the horrors with their wake and not let sink, I'd never pray.

A hush a scream a dandered cloth, a plucking of the eyelids. A crucible, a tender glance, an amber sun that'd never let us in. There is not mercy. Keep it bayed. And flow on southern all that grace let come what seldom ever may, I'd pray it so. Let not it in. What sight or sound could touch us, what then could come between, was passion meant for peasants or for keeping in with kings, let's pray it so. Let pray it so. And hush forever. Was it mercy, was it gladness, were there fixed and dying things or was there plenty. Couldn't see it, couldn't say, I'd seldom pray. Let fortune stream and not keep bayed, I'd wish it so. And tender mercy. God be willing, grant us 'morrows. Grant us cleansed. And keep it bayed, I'd seldom pray. And wish it in. I'd reach for higher, couldn't see it, couldn't say. Let come the rain.

What sight is this, what running ground, that'd run forever stretched and not yet cease. What thing to stay uncloyed in unwrapped hands that'd never wither, blistered marble, paper skin. Keep all ways hushed and always. Pray it so. There is not amber. What is there is not a turnkey, not a doorshut nor a stable, nothing home and nothing fixed, no grey foundation. Naught for keeping, all a rushing deadfixed sty, let's pray not so and tear up ground, let run the current. I am home. And this,

A rush a rush a tender hush a sorrow pent up nightly. A bellow for the weeping world and noose tied 'fore the right and stuckup lee. It wasn't so. Keep fast to ground, the wind is whipping, grass and trees plucked up from rooted homestead ground. Fight hard the tempest. We're not whithered, let us stay in shelter fixed, let not it rain. I am not steadfast but I'm able. Tear down the tired shibboleth, let come the rubicund and sanguine, horror stayed and I am willing. Tear the crux of yester's. Let it fall. There is no fleeing when there's home there bleaknot bound to true horizon. Pray it so and let the light in through the frame, douse nightout proper. Leave it so. There's tired ground.

And all is turgid, fogged crepuscule, brimming over. Does it outsing. Keep it stayed. Let not the levees o'erbrim, flood the rightsty, tune the wind to fleeting minor. Let it sing. And bathe the prairie, sound the bell. Keep floodlet lifted, I am stormfront and the clouds, the red of night, the beltlash whisper. I am abacus for grounding, keep me stayed. And miss her then. I miss her so. And on and through she's guiding sight and turn of hand and keeping sails uplifted, Eos unblight, Circe shorebound, all the pluming clouds to grace the sight of stars. The veil's prayed lifted, eyes like thunder, lips as bows, a storm of beauty, rent to tapestry and glowing as the sun, the turgid wake, the blooming promise, all the coventry of pathos then ungazed, let slip that leeguard, let the rain of passion in and keep it so. We're dancing further, fingers touch as those of Adam grace his god's, lips stuck fervent, rhapsing song, a flintlock minor, bellow siren, keep it so. There is not torment, nor the neutral, there is bliss in waiting morning as she's stuck there in your sight, in naked mind, a raw bit clawing, vengeance inculled, Woman made.

And miss her then, you did and would and still she's on your mind. Let darkness scatter, let the light in, pray it so. Keep God in sight for something grander, there is hope and there in shapeless touch. A myriad and unencumbered grace in being human, keeping sight, outbelching flue. She is bellstring and the seer's stone, the amber glass, the vision of the morn, there is not horror. Horror's left. The door is shut, the darkness lifted, barrows dug. The hill unearthed, the nightshade plundered, and the gallows rusted stuck. There is not night here, night has left. There is morning and the touch, the wait, the 'cstasy there in 'morrows, pray it so. I'd pray it so. And hush your worries, I am steadfast not but able, I am torn up from my cast, my turgid wake, I'm lifted up and waiting, where is she.