I bid him,
To his own devices---
To the spiral of thought,
It darkens-- then lingers.


Harden heart--- cracked ---shards of clarity.

His blood could wilt,
The love of
Youthful trespass.
He stages his barrage.
It is his defense. His first and last;
Within a line of fortitude.

For all I had fought
upon the blank fields
of his disheartenment,
Still he toils,
With futile demons.

Laminate the grasp of his fingers!
And,
Extol his stagnation
upon the empty gaze
Of November.

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