Clutching tattered towels around Him,
rags to none at all,
Give up all things that wrap themselves
in neared closenesses
slick and soft,
                    grating and harsh,
                                              those acrid smells ,
of fear, of anticipation, of loathing.

Loathing? nay He dips His hand
in putrefaction
and brings out the one jewel
He sought
Those selfsame scintillating shades,
those closed looks
that burning fetid air,
Wracking His lungs,
Taking and giving.
He never knew she could make Him,
what then of the bubbling brook
that erupted ,
springing from His loins like a flow

Does that Feed the minions,
the multitudes erupting
from His pores are
Many times not,
                    what will He use next.
Did He collect them all as feeders
breeders all
and Himself too.

A new start,
Wisdom trickles, not roars in.
Charging Steeds, those 600 came to Mind,
charging down slopes into a hail of steel
Never to rise ever

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