This is the yeast

which all man breath,

And burn to receive,

As if all the talk and images have become

Suddenly gratifying.

I know a man of sorrows

Who sits by me and watches

Through the hues of a deep, dark red

And nods, which is to say:

“This can not be.”

And I’m torn to a broken, watery, song.

It seams from my sight and onto my hands

Ashen from the purpure I stole off royal places.