A Loving Torch Burns Hottest Into Thy Heart... Poem by Michael Gale

A loving torch burns hottest into thy heart...
Yon beautified looks shant never to time's marching on decease or to depart.

Quickest sands drain down the slanted neck of hour glasses stand...
Life depleated not to defend or play in this musically instituted band.

Death is the only last muted listener of a life intoned to utter sadness....
Let us just fine tune that deathly spectered apperational being whole souled to a temptational state of badness.

Cindered sweet charcoal steams off thy floor's own supportal beams and base...
Yes-I may seem doomed to this death induced state of grace.

I am at last dead to the world...
I just may be sick as well as have had thickened and liquidy and stickity hurled.

This thought makes me hurl...
I am dead seriously as a crazy assed squirrel.

Life on the affrontal assaulted stage of life...
At last-at last,
No life, no sad bitchin' hating like life of strife.

The last drawn breath escapes these purplish tinted lips...
No more sounded sounds of unenergized whimsicle quips.

No thoughts or sayings...
Only be left are for certain slayings.