Crisader

Anglers
Pole held in hiding
Catches dead fish
Timorous rhythm
Ceaseless, ruptured
Caresses
Catches dead fish and pours into pocket
At length
At length aware
Of death rushes on
Wings of dread
For familiar tree
Oblivious of pants
Dry and warm change
Shackles locked with blessings
Opens book in exhaustion
And lectures on ichthic reproduction
Vocation and responsibility
True wings of perdition
Trying to release
Too cool
Trying to strengthen but
Safe and righteous mirages bring low the desperate prayer
Money and me
If we’ll get any old tree
And money’s the same
Whatever the game