Tiss the season,
Of men that failed me,
Because morning blight.

Between me and I,
Two tales stand still,
Crooked in light of the moon.

The tread of water,
By too few,
Drowning in banquet galore.

Frequence to bathe,
And fingers sorting article,
White knuckled.

To keep them silent.

Let alone an emplied aphrodisiac,
Another sin to cure,
Another nail bored deeper.

Splinter a leaf and bloom flower,
Dead by rights in the middled moon.