Build the storm-brought wood till its right to burn -A civilization, an amended word; Completion and destruction turn A dead-end rhyme as mated words. 5 The long matchstick cracks, a broken finger, A wail to salt the self-subsuming wood; -As if no injury could make ginger Our conscience to aid the good. I know myself, and play my hand 10 Shadowless in the flame and briny fire Until a new pink hurt like stinging sand Bids hand withdraw, and I perspire.
From the collection "The Timid Leaper"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.