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The imaginations of our hearts run riot like a vast and intertwining pipeline. Each leak and tarnish speaks over tired rags pressure tied for the assurance of ease and flow—the clang of shaking iron quivers and strains to un-vibrate an innocuous parade of senseless resonance (who would drink the putrid and poisonous?). And surely in vain I have washed my hands in innocence, my ears racking with verity like a dream when one awakes—embittered, senseless, the ignorant beast beats (verily verily) in the break of sleep and wake:

“fear”, and that someone knows your frame.

But As For Me

Ps 73


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