waiting for searing iron throngs

do not change your mind about me
east coast bellicose songs flattened
belligerence ascribed to neighbors
never entering these partial doors

singspiel poetry, if all the words
of God are songs, but language
does not distinguish songspeak
like pelted language of sunrise

impartial to the sinking ocean
where I once found myself swim
covered in heavy towels to hold
making it easier to sink back stalled

it may be time to return to spiraling
before the searing iron throngs return
demand their simple array of customs
that I must tolerate their oblate signing