the beast

oh, what a wicked, nefarious fit
rioting the mind
soliloquy bent on wielding wit
to wage a war on time

a soul as mild as scent on shade
is nearly as aware
apropos and apt to writ
with all who’ll wager fare

softly from her haunches
saunters sweetly, slight askew
all to the nines in nuances
noticed by too few

be wary though, the drive is strong
and lines have yet been drawn
’round the siren shard that slices dawn
with words that don’t belong

for the facets of the whole at helm
are too many to be bound
but the poet – as a separate self
is a madness
walkin’round