By dint of sheer grace

The facticity of the noose,

As it slips down the neck

Of an exhausted, given world.

Such a place keeps me

Lost in the interior,

Velvet frayed on small trees

To soothe the antlers of time

And the strictures of the mind

That weaves the silk

Of the single-minded pursuit.

Among all pillars of faith,

I stand imperially sensuous.