thirteenth aim of the vile clock

my beloved,

you have flowered the negative phrases and traces of a conjugating

sword.

i am still an apprentice on the good side of death.

a group of clappers, all just clipped wings. 

is it true that poets are most alive when they are dead inside?

and yet, who kept all the killings?

you see,

the heart of septembers made me want to sing alive with you,

like a bird in a box of hope,  

not dim, not dark, but what was promised within.

is it true that poets are mute in the ordinary ways of language?

could you extinct a poet if you trap them in a box full of logical

schemes

rather than a box full of darkness?

you see,

i do not want my fears clustered onto the same hands,

onto the same trace, onto the same chaos.

i have eaten the weak within me,

have woven the thirteenth aim of the vile clock 

i once borrowed from the duchess of time.