To the horned

Sheet with

Pointless eyes,

Recall your

Youth as a

Ticking tale.

That overt

Parable with

I embedded.

Plays and tussles

For the

Highest apples.

Shreds of grass

To bury beneath

Our backs.

Those tunes

To wale with

Nightly flies.

Under each

Decisive moon

Of praise.

Such remembrance

To delay with

Now deflated

Minds.

A seemingly

Shaded story

For the

Bed we’ve

Come to

Leave asunder.

To fix its

Frame is the

Whiring wretch

Of a sinister

Gap, to which

My ears shall

Never truly

Embrace.