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And, Dale, like, the road, we knew, so well,
you tried, to drag me, down to Hell,
with, your nose, so wet, unwell.
A white cat’s collar, rings it’s bell.

I climbed, the banks, of, the Glen,
without a thought, a hope, or, ken,
up, the paper-sharp, clinging, edges,
without, a purpose, a plan, or, pen.

And, Dale, you could, always, tell your lies,
without a mouth, you, still, have eyes.
They seldom blinked, at other’s cries,
they never saw, your glassed demise.

I ran, with every notion, of escape,
knees and elbows, grazed and scraped.
The lined and needled hedges,
scored me, for my sake.

And, Dale, you think you know so much,
but, you have, only, read, one book.
The book, that answered, your bad luck.
The questions mount, and, you’re mistook.

Do hypocrites, make sense, of words?
Can, a shark, out-fly, a bird?
Can, the past, out-swim, the dredges?
The answer you hate, is, all, I heard.

And, Dale, can, you turn, water, into wine?
Create, signs and wonders, all, of the time?
Live, in, the House of God, sublime?
Or, are you, just, really, past your prime?

The bed, you made, is, crawling, with, your lies.
You, always, said, you’d rise, we’ll see, how high.
When, your final sleep, comes, to soften, all, of your edges.
And, the larvae, have, sniffed you, into flies.

© poormansdreams

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