A marked man, all strew up in the rafters,

Swaying

As though concaved inward

Over that last open sea

Pushing back the reminisce of itself

A weathered affair that breaks the properties of itself

A personal oblivion

Estranged

Scrutinized to the point of obscurity

That half golden tassel that falls into your face

Of white winged angle strings

This dream, mad from forever

Of that which falls from grace