Shucked corn and apple cores founded a union
with the warm earthy foam of impoverished lace
skimming along the surface of lower-class society,
a polar opposite of the whimsical sunrise grace.
The drone of timid dusk, stretching out its long-boned hand
to overtake the bedraggled loitering at the edge of Eden,
reminds Them of the face-off between two broken mirrors;
dusk is the hour of defeated, when faith is but an invention.
An epilogue to the fragmented lyricism between us,
that with heartened cheers we tie knots in the lionís mane.
Oh, but would the Earth draw from our tenebrous lagoon,
but then how tactfully we would wield the carpenterís plane.
Oh, futile was the Sunís dismal eternity at birth,
when we curse our consciousness to observe
the mourning call up heaved by the rape of the earth.