deliquesce

The world spins on ridiculous pivots

mired in a myriad hazards 

like saxophone concertos
at Croydon Minster,

some slouching tonic for the soul.

Surety being,
the supposed applause of molten ancestors 

As I stand disintegrating, the

atoms flowing outward into morass
the great equivocal river

like memories, we replicate and thus, dilapidate

flowing down to a great sea of souls

palliatively soothful for 

what remains
enroute to the plummet-gate,

the coil must be rid of,
it is a brittle skin,
the journey of a skeleton.