Carving Up The Assets

To old for winter

not quite young enough for spring.

Tired bones entrenched and digging,

abilities black consumer.

Burnishing the last,

the candle dancer.

Those embers glowing red to black,

pulsing on air, sucking in

greedily wanting you more.

Choking barely alive the last of the grate

The money monkey’s swift eventual surface.

Ultimate demise, the thirst of desire, the last of the fire.

And for the sun to go down that diminishing light.

Dark of your time.

Then all those middle pigs and little snots came begging,

dropping trousers, lifting their skirts,

groping in those murky waters.

Now where’s the truth in that?

There’s truth in them there hills.

Don’t worry old man!

They fill in all the spaces,

they tie up your laces.

A zipped up grin, on a cracked up face,

and a painted on smile.

Now there lies truth in a casket of wood.

A thousand feet, for a field full of mud.