Honey Chopped ✅

I have a love

for pure,

sentimentally demure

reconnaissance.

The remit to see

after it,

to hear

as sounding

of waves

as collusion, nay

a solicitous infusion

gullible pans

the carcass

of my faith.

As when eerie,

squirm insoluble

chide monstrous

prey to madness.

Faithless fodder

upturns,

in holy spells

of wack a mole hell.

And I can’t stop it,

horror chases me down,

lose it lose it,

lose it —

Throw the damn board

oh happy dagger,

misericord.

Then in count

from seven to ten

resumes again

as an irrepressible grace

carrying

tarrying, betide

trailing edges

for kisses

and misses,

sanguine or shred. Goes

right to my head.