Crisader - Wigwam

Anglers

Pole held in hiding

Catches dead fish

Timorous rhythm

Ceaseless, ruptured

Caresses

Catches dead fish and pours into pocket

At length

At length aware

Of death rushes on

Wings of dread

For familiar tree

Oblivious of pants

Dry and warm change

Shackles locked with blessings

Opens book in exhaustion

And lectures on ichthic reproduction

Vocation and responsibility

True wings of perdition

Trying to release

Too cool

Trying to strengthen but

Safe and righteous mirages bring low the desperate prayer

Money and me

If we’ll get any old tree

And money’s the same

Whatever the game