Towards the west-end,the wet sun rots day by day, 
With its night skin splitting in its furnance 
And the deposed earth snailing through the healing pain 
With its fallowed gripe lay deceased in famished grains. 
The sky's worn out salted manure 
Feeds the famished eclipse of exhausted penitence 
Smearing the termite hosted ribs of breath 
With immune stings of senile seasons 
The star sleeves of the pond's fury 
Spear through the torn circle of smoke 
Sentencing an orphaned moment of union to the gallows, 
Where the rusted chorus of martyrless homes choke 
The exhumed hymns of succumbed tatters, 
Castled under the wing of a nestling leaf, 
Seeping the drizzle of a parted shade 
Having dodged the flames of its burning grief

updated by @americymru: 11/18/16 10:05:39PM