reign a pun the rash thy fiery hail of laughter
ravish the margins do bleed the verge to its ditch
blacken the pale and each think burden with hope
the center of our ail and complicit to tongue with.
swallow eye do i swerve in contentment
sacred to none so sick i reed in your winding
and a way is the way to my waist in the end.
images: jim leftwich