Dying like fleeting words,
Plummeting to the ground
The grey concrete beneath
No longer bound to the skies.
Their previous masters, our fathers
The Saints, having too fallen into their self-dug/proclaimed graves,
Martyrs, who thought they were so profound
Into the niches in the walls.
Pink, malign residue peels off of plaster
Paper skin shredded like wax- at the spur of
The Devils heated iron rod.
The Male Muse,
Is comically unaware of the abuse
In admiration of his fatal flaws
Which are the cause
Of painful admiration
A tempting allegation
For desperate accusation
By ladies, who seek to explain
The bounteous terrain
Of such exquisite, male charm
How do we meet those rare creatures, the hybrid of their species
The speckled Zebra, the kind blue Hyena, the laughing Swallow
or the willowing Bamboo.
How do we stop our feet, from crushing four leaf clovers when we hastily run through football fields.
How do I correctly calculate the probability of meeting you
and taking the correct motorway lane rather than getting stuck on an eternal train , riding on a wishing star,
through a Milky way of Mud.