Kettle horses

The way you wish to recover
Is not like a dream

Not like a kettle
In authoritarian affairs

Though I can see
That giving them over
At any one given moment in time
Will be like fire
Be like kettle horses

Conjuring a past of translucent states
That march on the periphery of stalwart dawns
And cry to Mary
Show me my compass
Show me my affairs
That I would not have to wait long
For recovery. Try to decipher between
Love and cults, let the morning sun
Introduce you to languid hearts
Smote in the fire of resistance
And closed with a half breath
Strung in the attire of dreams,
Of morning echoes, that are dire
And remembering a love that parts a thousand dreams.

Show me my recovery
In a brittle song
Measured in beetle shells
I am not walking to behold the scenery of plantation lilies
That speak of alternate routes of misery and tribal
Confusion. In the morning we shake the saw dust out of our pockets
And rise to new states spoken in testimony of night vespers,
That stole the remembrance of our dream.

If doves are memories
They are not difficult to impart
If sloth is earth shining
It is not the men of dreams
That dwell shallow strangers
And conjure the dismal wake of dreams
But truth in an old hymn
That incited our imparting
That woke the first kiss
From this morning light.