For Critique

[Brownlie]

The Placid sky above my head
Was always there to shine
A beam or two of dust-filled rays
With falling dirt confined

I often languor freedom stale
And feel the heavy air
Where every paradox in breath
Subsists a vacant stare

To quell that stifling fatal press
I circle cracking lips
Producing endless sighs of gas
Towards apocalypse

I grasp at meat in patter songs
And search a book for rhymes
To beat the shears of life and death
By penning fatal twine

Perhaps I’ve won our human clash
In plastic shining words
And formed a gloried path in flesh
By inking dogs absurd

The bark of death was never heard
But wrought a gnawing fiend
To chew my corpse of fameless life
That lived and ripened green

I felt the heavy cracking boughs
Beholding worms in mud
As rotten sugar filled my core
I dazed away the thud

My argument’s a natal scrawl
Whose signal died a sign
I cannot say where this refers
But paint a crude design

So here’s my plot-less tale that's told
Beside a bubbling brook
That babbles shifting shades of hope
Of chances I forsook

To fringe upon a formless draft
Denying barren stone
Into a host of chiding words
To goad a rising tone