To a Will Dressed to Kill...Nightmares and wonderment, Both wrapped up in Providence and Transience, Strum the strings of his long-necked Muse. So large these looming loquacious lords, They drop him into the exile of his chords. Southern Boy: So sad, Summer-clad Against Winter’s bite, Spring’s spite, Summer’s plight And Autumn’s fright. His t-shirt and jeans Betray with simplicity The chaotic schemes Denying him felicity. Despite the sun the heavens bring Cold rain drops that sharply sting His upturned eyes-- A familiar reprise. His quietus ebbs and questions flow Out, first broken, coarse and slow, But then with fierce disparity They fly forth and pierce his peace, Artistically. These interrogations line up Row on row Like Flanders’ crosses Where the poppies grow. There is no end in sight To these friends, These companions— His own Judas kisses. | 
