So cautious is that soul – it’s been going through the same substance every dawn
There is no ultimatum.
So, uh, that soul pretends to fit in the target’s aim…
But this body, left in the coldest banks, only travels astray.
Through passed nickels and hay –
Fore, day after marked day, that flesh climbs a calendar’s wretched wall.
Of paint – even of pain.
And through the disdain, a new picture within the frame.