This is the yeast
which all man breath,
And burn to receive,
As if all the talk and images have become
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.