I walk through the slush
of moral grief.
Here lies my mortal poem.

A prodigal menace.
You will not breathe in, the
golden grass, once more.
Lingering beside the past, the
savage today. I pick up
the silence of the tomb.

Lateral conjugation. You
come from the otherside to
breach the wall, bear the
pluralism―

and become none. The under-
belly, the yellow blood?
Will you hold my hand
to cross the meaning?