Constructs of southern coats of arms on the diamond-ash rain-stations

seeking cover from the tight rope of a place in the marginal station
conceived once as promised by an oath, now degrades under scale
matted perception torn as a palace of being our neighbors stake –
just to give enough room to be, to allow for expression, shifts aside
according to who has procured comforts beyond their needs
a tight rope, to seal the greed of tornado runs on a land bestowed –
without climbing riders of fathers and mothers of passive guilds
the charm of the fumes of corrupt storied ports will seethe into us
leaving us undaunted to take the blame for Earth’s robbed envy