Sour Fires

Let's go again, fire up the pen
and ghost my head in goggles full of lead
it's all been said
gladly whispered in pockets full
of wilting roses
posing proses of long gone
jumbled and misspoken
spokes of a wheel long broken
spinning and spitting out
last hopes
ropes a sky-wide, hold
seventh dimensions of a center
folded, molded, cold, still
over told, under sold
 
If I dropped you a line
something you couldn't define
without a gesture
 
If I could guess your
most guilty doubt
the one that runs
the show
 
Could I, you know?