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Six came marching down the aisles

Solid soles asound forbear

Three were slinging stones, a few of which did strike

And three had other sights in mind

I sketch unchained as six have redescended

To their momentary graves

And did they not herald with fire and drums before?

The wounds no dial may cure

Afloat in a neurotic pool of gin and cheapest scents

I took what the steady minds in dreams had treasured

Until my lips were stuck to the moistened tiles

And fingers, but scraping from the cracks, the bitter nectar

I still hear the six, mumbled moans that fade

And I knew they spoke of time

A master casting blasts of bliss, oblivion, essence, magic, healing

Healing the scars of lessons

For no remainder to be seen!