In my imagination there's a letter I have reason to send
writing is not a sin
heaven forfeits what it does not let in;
letter written in blood if I were anemic I'd been dead long since.
When we change the rules or dress up the name
everything's still the same:
society when maimed or made lame
no one and everyone is to blame
In unison they swing their canes
dapper dressed they walk down one ways
all the while our lives wind up
not as literal time-pieces reckoned by a heart wind terrible to behold,
but as the wisps of wind that soft-dance across your face on a hot day.