The windy road winds around the bridges that are spared immunity,
A flower in a clenched fist, and he misses her flair and beauty,
A remarkable pacing lauded on as the speed to keep,
The particle phase beam is caustic if freedom bleeds,
Unconvinced and utterly speechless yet scared to come back,
Whup-ass is lesser known than how many peanuts can fit in one can,
The man kneels, then breathes deeply with a frigid inhalation,
Day after day he comes, and each week he’s at a visit in summation.
Different views can see the same picture bleeds a thicker curd for primordial acclimation,
Just as the gravedigger sees no visitor but an incorporeal apparition,
Getting worked up like an animal or chicken in a coop that calls for a face,
The man holding his chrysanthemum trips on a boot and falls in the grave,
Lying there he is wondering if he’s man enough to plea for a money-assisted ledger,
Unto the darkness of the rest, the chrysanthemum tea turns the bloody liquid redder.