He steps across empty rocks
As his dainty bare toes elope with
Each and every dry stone’s
Gray mop stained hull
Their tops do drop and dip
Beneath the waters desert flat lid
That’s stained dark as the blackest ink
~
His eyes bluer than any dreary lost night
Not simply of another masked color
But in a form he holds dearest
Lit up glowing those eyes became for me
As a beckoning bright lantern
Held up in the fog by a sullen mirage
Shaped as a mumbled mans mane
But harshly crafted of pessimistic fiery intent
That could be carried only by one made by
Old wrecked band branded gods
~
Many dull and blindly thought
Of the bold spangled man as a demon
But to my wronged self he’s a simple love
Held dear to my wit and sought after
By my souls dearest affections
Accounts of a Flailing Mind 