Built on high, the scaffold's walls are hinged to the 
fold. The step slopes downward for none. Their aims ran 
steep. So where, then, must you have tryst? A crane of 
the neck- your crooked eyes rose to rest where the loft 
hung.
The weight you've sweat here will not lighten your load. 
It gnaws on fragments of your tired soul. Your line: an 
arc for progress. Your sky: a roof. Your gate is closed. 
The way for you is plowed. The cart you pull is culled 
from your bones.
In darkness ashes coat your lungs. In silence there is 
only defeat. Wisdom to you now is but a burden. The 
breeze that broke you came from your throat.
No ire can keep burning. No wrath is wrought by the 
lowly. A slow step and you've only to wait until, claws 
bent, mind fogging, the next wind will topple you wholly. 
Cold mire, deep soppingÂ… climb up and pull your load.
The waves all broke, and sovereigns tend the falls. The 
tide broke, a cloven splash, and sovereigns tend the 
falls as if rising again and again to be chopped at the 
knees was a gift.
The impetus will fade with dusk. You sorrel nag, your 
coat is blood and rust.