To sing to the frozen nightshade glory of all

Bones crooked; legs bowed
It slept well but can’t conjure
What time we lived
A perplexed frown discovered my solemn thought
Escape was an idea worthy of the television
But I cannot read with such desolate accusation

Autumn grips bondage of meaningless wholeness
Fullness that holy men swallow with raw tides
But I can extend my broken limbs to the sky
With photonic spirit scourge of planetary pull
To sing to the frozen nightshade glory of all
Fountains of youth, American and utterly uncanonized