The skoal of tomorrow — with Adagio

Where we’re noxious, in plume  
of interlude, perhaps doom  
Within the vestibule of wince and waken  
Untilled and forsaken  
Where the sky opens up  
to billows of whimsical flair  
Clouds stretched out  
like man-made gout  
to flesh out  
the lay of our spine  
Where the wither of thought  
allays the verbiage that pens my odes  
ill wrought ‘neath the field of missed breath  
Casting doubt upon dither  
Masking clout above wither  
In the spleen and between  
To define the words  
adding to the curds  
in the skoal of tomorrow