Clowns ands drudges could not see—whores and liars wished to be—all would seek for what they’re not; the woman born to clean their clock. They’d see her clear, oh, clear as day. Yet brittle beakers would not say—their fluid was too low and blue—they’d lose the will to see it through. To stick a landing was the thing, no trust in God and what they’d bring, each step was made before the last, without the need for tempered glass. When falling forward never stops one finds they have unwound the clock. For it was her, the woman lost, the one unheld for petty cost. No one knew it, why they’d flee, when heart was singing artful glee. She’d never get it—what was hard—her love, it came without a charge. The anger borne had come to stay. At last this woman had her say. She’d take it back from God themself to make this right for her own health. She knew the one who’d pour the most would be held up by something’s ghost.
