smithsonian.

Streets belie their communal intent
'take me back to dear old Blightey'
drawn with cold hands into misuse
'ride me up the range,
but cease before we reach the edge
(of reason)'
Our dreams dissipate as they collide into
our moment's LOVE- but what of them?
Our terms hold no sense
hollow walls that sentry souls can't infiltrate
'Oh, trace my demise back to DEAR old Blightey'
'Chain me to the test- just in case'

(Half-angels shot in reverie & left to bleed)
distant triumphs blight my view
of your arms-reach beauty
cheering viciously, my failed enhances
spit faith at foiled enchantments.