A self-important brazen appeal to the Mother of tired persuasion and labored lips like a dormant congratulating tune of hawks and serpents and storied down under

Too troubled to coerce a cure for the malignant drone of my own self-satisfaction
I am passing on a military baton for the sacrifice of jewel crescent palimony
Like fragrant vessels of stowed away ice patterns to the door clock and seasoned greetings
I haven’t a heart of you, with your faint Mother’s beating condition, but I will listen for the cure

I have no vessel to trail about the morning of calling witnesses on the stand of Saturday
Like the vowel of scattered angry letters that do not own me, nor I them, but we fight as though
We had something common in mind. Break apart from your ashtray intentions
Dispose of your oligarchy potential laden missiles like cows in the sand of standard tunes

I have thought better than to let Her lead me to this place, but I am a witness
I am a standard cohort for library tensions and stained glass windows
“I like stained glass windows,” She said. “You are passing up on a witness,” She said.
And in that have you been countered among your angry leaves and grasping branches
Like fomenting grass stallions, like rosemary tulip disposals in the waste of your partner’s love
But I have seen you endure and I know there is potential for another kind of life, a patterned truth

“Do not turn this in,” She says. “It is not the faith of an arbitrary witness. I have no need
To be heard or calculated like a Mother of rhyme or flagrant stolen passages.”