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THE BRIM…TO THE BRINK
From the terrace rail
The coolness gently rises
Soothing is the lotus, riding
A thousand noiseless ripples
Ambrosia… skimmed by
The ornate hand of privilege
The rest will surely die
Subservient to their station
Tethered to inconsequence
Picture the man of little means
Wednesdays deathless effete
Unseen voices speak a panacea
So impelled, he’s set in motion
The promise wholly consumes
Sunset clouds gather the fading light
His time to subvert runs short
But does he follow or is he driven
Woe to the Savior, paroxysm is
His master now…
Far from me to relieve
This…..Pebble in my shoe
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