i will burn you a new age,
as walls of mud will gave way to
a new forest filled with berries,
and the lament of ancient kings.
prick them, and lie on your water bed,
drink the blood you’ve drained
and poured into your crystal cups.
tear up that cloth and that paper
upon which you’ve decreed,
the surrender of those steeds
and their loyal masters, who
whisper in solitary blind quarters,
of what you’ve done with glib ardor;
and of this terrible December,
a month of the poisoned chalice;
an uncertain life is the ultimate solace.