A Close Shave

Ay, a fresh face and a gleaming heart, a marbled cheek, and a winding start!
A pickled eye, on mirror’s stare, and creeping teeth, filled up with hair.
With gremlins mowing from the back, and words of brutal twirling crack;
With wobbling noses, receeding tubes, and endings rushing from selfsafe crews,
And glimmering hopes of long lost eyes, to see the ones they so despise
For leaving face to see another, who would so sweetly cut a brother.
And running down a sloshing pipe, I see the pieces up the stem –
They see to where my vision gazes, through silvered mirrors and watery hazes,
Till crawling sadly, so see, they, the mirrored nightmares of butchered hay,
Till night upon them falls at last, and die they all on bodies, passed,
And rolled up under rich decay, they press upon the hated clay,
Until they rise to look back upon us, eyes askew, and hateful, honest.
Knowing, they, behind them lies the love they left to die inside,
And knowing hate for what’s between
The past of life, and present, mean,
They smash to rubble vicious men, who make their drinks of those condemned
To die in weakness just as they, on time’s cruel arrow, lined and gray.
Upon this arrow, fine and faint: the fickle chain of fate’s cruel hate
Of life to play the simple song, of whirling repetitions wrong,
Till wrongess turns to make a right, and stare at hatred and, in fate, wrong,
And twisting wrong upon the chain, break the shackles right in twain
Upon the collar of arrow’s hand, leave deathly touch upon handler’s brand.
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