The weekend frills are filled with lore
of kings shattered by the sun, who penned
the notations of horizons rain with the
artifice of one forlorn and rustling fellow
with an hourglass within his hand.

The keeper of protection's things chant
the ancient essences of courtship's velvet
hum, I walked the broken road of vanity's
understanding that experience brings,
I touched the cobblestones with care
and sheltered beautiful rings that bound
my hatred with idle wings and wrestled
magics with a dried up old and bitter thing.

I searched horizons wide and far for proof
that only the beauty of poverty brings,
I walked in step with women drunk with the
fumes that perfume sings, I ran through
golden fires with a robe of angel wings that
drank of heaven's fountain scent and scuttled
sour things.