Devilish drone of metal and leafy tears

surround the ruddy wagons of this brain,

leaving tied tight the memory of beers

drunk with loyal friends between sky and rain:

The planets whirl unknown in this false state

where sovereign fists punch against tyranny

embodied in the hollow torso’s fate,

encircled like drums without synergy:

The blade is endlessly sharpened by air,

relentless in its double-talk, back-talk,

and my race is lost, accosted by bare-

chested satyrs that never walk the walk:

At least, amongst the scraping, there are wet

leaves to break my fall when the twin suns set.