choking down the chyme
of wine and cheese
on which he'd supped.
Three hours of tortuous
ad nauseum later
all up he violent threw it
wishing he'd taken
time to sip and chew it.
Thrashing sweatliy in fevered dreams
upon the dawn's broken light
all awash in call of
duck, duck and goose
tore something from
the dark deeps loose.
No rhyme or nearly clever line
could wash the soot from
off his scarred heart's rime..
for despite and beside
all desires, wants and needs
the most of what's left, glacially adrift,
(a moraine of sorts)
he knew, we not words or lines,
but the embrace
of that smallish pile of
righteous acts and deeds.
