Standing on deathway,
choking back tears,
for a stance.

There were few minutes left,
when you took the cover
under pervasive falcon.

Was it not a
molestation of a baby moon,
when you wash your sin in dimlight.

Amazing was the
religion of short legs.
An ailing mother was waiting at door.

You strike a chord
(while I don't stir)
before anointing the dark.

The battle of penultimates,
after a hill down
shackled to river.