The Words Will Gather in a Well-Formed Row

The words will gather in a well-formed row. A gloss of likeness binds the lines in place. Meaning is brought into a young rake's life By a brain that's throwing sparks. The beads of days are strung into a rosary By someone's hard and faithful hand. With the metal bristles of a brush It scrapes away the plaque of age. The bones can feel the weight of escapades: The spine, the knees, the face. The school of choosing the right meanings Will knock the shit out of you in no time. But don't you think it's gone — a trail will linger, The trace of karmically sprouted seeds. A cocoon with a spirit in a cosmic safe, But far too stubborn in its ignorance. Sit on a stone. Relax your eardrums. Everything vibrates in the world of things. Focus — there's a subtle one as well. Pray — up there they'll hear you better.