Leaning tepid against a splintering staff.
Through the spooky, squalid woods you hear,
Your footsteps, as loud as lions in your ears.
In gnarled trees the spotted owl hoots,
you cringe and tread on, shaking in your boots
You reach the end of the beginning and bypass,
a chipped sign shielded behind emerald grass.
You slip facile through the thorny vines,
to reacha filthydoormade ofmoldy pines.
You brush aside the thick, lustrous dirt,
because curiousity you've learned to assert.
A solution to grief'sinscribed on the door,
And as awhirling fog tumbles across the moor,
You lip sync, all other thoughts eclipsed,
and these mystic words slide past your lips:
HERE IS MY TRIBUTE
THE BIPARTISAN FINGERS
THAT TEAR AT ME
AND ALL OF THE DEAD EYES
THAT STARE AT ME
I'VE GONE FISHING
PLEASE LET ME BE
So until then please let it be allowed,
for my scorched soul to fester in front of the crowd.
And promise my fragile state of mind,
that until then you'll just let me unwind...
For all in all,
from then until now,
to be any wisp at all,
my dolor must howl.