Ay'udame

a black goat with three glass horns, broods on a hill, in the mist -
in the muted heather. a sea breeze mangles the purity of dense fog
revealing a silhouette of dark oak and chimneys. abandoned shapes -
grope the goosedown gray of exhausted clouds, dragging their garments
on the fallow ground. 
there's a deep song missing from the repertoire. a hole in the quiet
that squats in every cumulus parade.. like a nocturne with amnesia
humming furies to rest. a moon alone with cold stars for comfort -
careens the upper void with stolen sunlight pinning a man to it's face.
a wineskin sways from a low branch like a lazy kidney, dozing off in a hammock.
pebbles underfoot, where man's road has crumbled after years of toil
herding wagons to the mill, and all the abattoirs of our carnivorous kingdom.
sworn to secrecy. betrothed to entropy. a trail leading off to a vanishing point
to a question. a murk on the outskirts of enchantment. where the doldrums go
to pitch tents with pensive poles. jutting from the earth like lightning rods
with hangovers. draped in sullen tarp, in a field of brackish noir. 
a black goat floats over bog thatch and apples.
as a church bell 
with a severed tongue.
can only scream.forever. 
like a bronze acorn
driven mad
by Psalms.