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My money was through in slanted lands.
So, I begun anew with extant, dead hands.

Solitude was conjured in the Catherine
wheels, that spun along my martyrdom.

I rode a road on pneumatic drill spike tips.
Plunging hole after hole free of lifely grips.

A question covered me in bloody rust;
“How do you govern me, I’m governless?”

At a saintly grotto, St. Colmcille’s Shrine,
a faintly motto paints the pillar’s lime;

“I am a Dove when shackled, rough.
On wings, open, clutching us together.
Far above, Father Darby’s banded cuff —
gone kin, soak in gushy luck; untethered.”

© poormansdreams

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