It is routine of man
to soothe weedy hearts
as caustic wordy flits
cut deep and mock at a patient
of mind and bony body.
You cannot stitch a tale
lost in a whirlpool of ties
man rejects to tend,
but wishes to engrave
acts and words on stone,
raising a huge structure
so that he lives,
in tit-bits of memory
and concealed lockers,
as it makes him happy,
with a feeling of scorn.
