Limbless men cannot their own throats slit

It’s never the ones
you expect it to be
One’s so erect, so happy

A decade or more of tyranny
with no real reason
to believe it to be this way

Dog-eared blueprints of the day
stuffed away in a worn pocket
that prays for another
wishing well in which to
toss another coin
The pocket, the well cannot conjoin
enjoyment of voyeuristic horizon

Watching on and on
as Cohen drones along
to refrain of cold air
whistling o’er an open urn
Ash long burning
never to return to solid state

Capitulate my inner self
Post-wealth Delphic oracle
whispers at cave’s edge
Is the dragon home?
Nay, off with a flagon
roaring within eyeshot
of maiden’s tower

No knight is he
brave as he may be
captive will be he
until eternity
Glancing down at severed
limb that itches more than ever

The limb never knows
but it misses the body
as a god misses belief

as a dying tree misses it’s last living leaf

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