left dangling in the sun.
Corroded with cohesion to
a listless, tiring run
to sanctuaries where sleep
will find the beggar and victor
all awake, all weeping,
all rapt in succor.
Sweet for those whose eyes have taken
up the cross-bearing others have forsaken.
Sweet for those in quiet repose
from a world, broken, shaken.
All hearts aligned to the beggar’s
and all thought made to conquer the worm.
Turning, turning, ever turning.
All in a violent storm.