A blackened tongue
a wisp of smoke...

The path of separation
Echoes of grandeur sound upon my throne...

Ghosts
rev their bikes, then...

Steps of condemnation
Pushing open the rusted Iron Gate...

Debbie is cleansed so
does not need reminding of...

walking through that storm
became more like backward steps...

as money piles burned
a need to make more made me...

performing a jig
brought a wriggling worm out for...

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen...