Multi

Feeling it down to the toes tips north of the tip of my nose

where the passions sits holy and well swallows sins

but sells them as wishes time and again.

Has not the age been stolen by the end of the body

where despair crawls towards homes in cries

and begs for the bland back again.

The way I spoke when I lost my voice

I lunged from my knees to convince you I'm blessed.

I'd buy back the years as luggage and tears.