As I collapse in dry rye, afterall.

 
So I collapsed in dry rye, afterall
It's within my jealous nature that starts
to bury my pale face under the rocky banks
as I hitch my barge to heavy river carts.

There's rows of stiffened twigs handling glass under painted suns
I still collapse under rye, afterall
my high skies mask my black pit of rolling puns
that subsides to residue after my gulps are done.

I briskly wisk my token care, by cig-flicks, away
and notice neither time, nor space can discern
when I last collapsed in rye, afterall
the clocks curse, as ash in trays, is no more my concern.

As the river rages on our more foolish words will dredge,
as you gently stir towards eddies peak, with my attentive,
whirling stare at those sparkling stones by your river's edge
where I collapse in dry rye, afterall.