A sequel, predictable,
rug pulled by thingsof so little consequence,
no news, just symptoms.
Ravel ironic, stationed in wait,
on the way to somewhere, a surface truth,
central among distant beauty -
razors the eye, shakes the bowels,
as buzzards land around the neck.
Perhaps I have no right,
just walking on the shore, in line,
but furthest away,
shielded by night.
Uncomfort reaped, a bestowed memento,
cutis contained, to cast a shadow
and give birth to nothing
but words and shades
of deep monochrome,
to a logic dire, beyond Champollion's reach.
Natured/nurtured, readily lost,
thought clouded, to strip naked in the wind,
could the ink used to write the guidelines
be drying still.
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