Rodeo, and I have no saddle for this path
Smell distinct like cumin, acumen just summons wrath
And, as the timer ticks I know my chances truly dwindle
That my love is truly out there
But I'll see what spindle hath
I've a, heart of hot coal
Which accompanies cold flow
Analogous to a Picasso
Paint emotions
After dipping brush in words upon my palette
King's ascension does not hinge upon a ballot
I, hear the applause
Clapping, with sharpened claws
And I, finally escape
Just to find, I'm still, in its jaws
And I, run, my mortal engine
On ink, smiles, and tears
Though, fate, hides its plans from me
I, know they aren't found in gin
Nor, in eyes, that are cowled by fears
Oak, only grows so far in a flowerpot
I soak in zeal, in a cloak, of both good and vice
Skill is nought if altar does not see what hands have wrought
Rot is all some tongues have sought
Climbing mountain for that Edelweiß
Pitchforks, are the price of magic
Kenning source of shadows-cost of sight
Nescience 'bout the figures dancing on the walls is tragic
But visions in the cave are best unlocked by one's own might
In sea of kerosene, I swim by candlelight
I don't wait for knocks
Opportunity's dragged through threshold
I don't hide my scars
Any more than I hide their canvas
Keen eye for the crocs
Snouts, gaping to flesh hold
I can feel at home whether with witches or in Kansas
Rather push hard
But take life as it passes
Than scramble around in darkness
Searching desperately for glasses
Pondering, whether, I fear oblivion
Less than eternity
Whether absence, or presence, of an after
Sweat I shall shed in this plane is a surety
Drooping flesh
To make bones mobile
Path of success
Failures paid toll
Beds are made, then unmade, with activity
Plans do die, afore their nativity
Lawns cut, clothes stacked
Life's, an exercise, in futility
Ride the road of fortitude
Or write an ode to misery
Or write while you are riding road and keep a poet company
Naïve, to think
I'd climb, 'thout bruised knees
I may be, wolf that's, removed from the pack
But I, pay my fare, and I bear my fair share of fleas
Some want signs but spurn divinity
Shut soul's blinds but feign transparency
More indulgence of your ego
More you drown accountability
Stored my grain in hollow silo
On return, it still was empty
Brumation's only rest that I know
Can't hibernate, if the winter never ends
From filth, art is wrought
To sow, tilth is sought
I swim in, sea of, vice and vicissitudes
Sustained quite well, by the fish that I've caught