The promise of what’s gone before
today’s a blank page nothing more
and if I’ve strained this metaphor
permit me one last four by four
The thousand leaves whip in the wind
the order God will not rescind
the prophecy to which I’m pinned
beneath the skin my stark skull grinned
to think about the childish ploys
dishonest prayers of jealous boys
desiring sense of self through toys
and soon moved on to darker ploys
that leaves me trying to find the thread
I might as well I’m still not dead
to misquote what Kaligula said
from where I sit I’m still ahead
what
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