The watcher holds his orbit tight
Spins up there in meat satellite
Cables snap to drag the clouds
Curtains drench the numbing crowds
He takes my blood my budding horns
Says there’s is no beauty in a rose without thorns
And the ghosts that flee his haunted look
Pass through walls of unread books
Cradling Cats he calls the night
Presumes himself neither wrong nor right
While fashioning hooks to end these lines
With knives and spoons and bent fork tines
January 2010
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