Chase the resident gulls of Lanyard Common, or lift the chains of dog-bound men. Seek the treasury of the earth, or loop forwards in uncertain ends. Trace the steak-filled wooden coffin or the scar round your twisting back. Stave the bleeding from sanctity of life, or pervade through the empty fields of forgetting, unknown men.
The insanity of the springtime sunshine falls across the jutted walls, brick upon brick yielding to the yellow beam that drapes its endless sparkling cloth over the mold of the pondering, retreated earth.
I walk with my head axially lowered from the gravity of time, that rushes up to meet and consume us all. So the past peels like a layer of rotten fruit, revealing the kernel underneath as less is extracted from more, little by little, and the swirling deception of images, like a protective bark of a trunkless tree, falls into the nothingness that presses the material chains, which clink loudly with the sounds of society's bells, keeping time till the soul drifts upward, inward, into crypts and into the falling trellises of loved time.
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