The Malice of Such a Thing

Luck, find me nude,

raw on bend and knee at thee.

A real open door just to

lay pure rose upon this life, glee

in the core of a blue sun at the skew

of you.

To raid long over seas in

wars gods fear for your grin

will save a soul

and is wind soft on my holy last sail.

If you are tax, I am poor; it is paid ere

the move to your city

by your lake

with all of you.

You are land ho! to my ship

lost, high star, and worn out row, row, row

to what hope the life raft has

for six, six, six eons to hear you call me daft.