Dangled cold toes under hot taps Weary bones that cry to collapse. With night she is blessed with peaceful request that she rest in it's traps. When awoken, as sun shines brightly, the rattled chest clenches tightly. Warmed by a shiver death doth order her: deliver politely.
Am I to be poured of cold glass and dance with death in soft pink gin? We'll spin upon a tailor's pin wearing the tarnish of brass. Bewitched in gaze, sunk in morass, I tread both lines in mortal skin. Am I to be poured of smashed glass and dance soft with death in pink gin? Reaper smiles sickeningly crass rapping bone on pondering chin with a heavy sigh of chagrin. This moment of visit must pass. I am poured out of cold smashed glass while death dances soft in pink gin.
The Poet Armistead 