Flask of the Open Grove

All in which sense is the slurring of castigation poured; Remarks stumbled from Woven sockets, deranged like statuary behind teeth – Eyes sullen like fatuous Nativity on Pause. Rolling, perpetual past dawns, rewinding Dusk as if Greed plunged between my toes, grappling, Slung like Evil. Battering on a Step, thence from Ignorant forging - Capped by Jingo and all things Lies.

Tell me again, by Which crippling of the Nerves; the Jarring of skulls, ossified like Rage in affiliation. Call upon the bargain of the enslaved; The free – Sad in a Prosaic march, loose like description. All incredulous in a single-file of death: but a prole Dare not uproot his Cage.

The Malignancy of Graves; the Danger past the bars – keeps all similar in solitude. Pushing bricks that build Bombs; ambling in streets that Rehash the soul, toiling to own what you had Made. Born, bereaved like Life in confinement painted Blue, and dancing, cramped between stagnant walls.