Reach out,
steady a tumultuous, terrestrial gyre
flung from the Falconer's gauntlet.

A comet, cataleptic, parading the wire,
with insects incessant, endless, forever,
burning, draining, collapsing a veinlet,
featureless faces and dead eyes forever.

Drown in
celadon scale dashing against scale,
weaving cold white and gray shade.

Laid through thighs of pale stone percale
that cruelly curbs the untrustworthy slope,
encroaching, eroding the guarding aubade
struck smooth by the wind on the slope.

Draw near,
wander a withering, sick shore-side road,
heartsick, homesick, the lost tarry there.

By the mist-ridden river, there they strode,
a ragged ridge betwixt wisdom and wilds.
Darkly defying all the scars that they wear,
tredding the river-side ridge near the wilds.

Behold,
unseen behind the communicable mask,
the lives twisted in terrene rags and ropes 
seductively spun from gilt and sterling silk,
of mesh, and light, and meaningless means.