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 Grandeur Of Melancholy

Delila Of North

Grim like the rose.
Moore like the supposed.
And face forward down
the south in reverse.

Unplug the machine
that operates bad poetry,
and get into the gothic 
seismic tremors of vibrations.

You got teeth in the belts
on the place you felt.

Let us shoulder
this together, like
the force of the dance.
Let the devil watch on,
and laugh.
Finally once and for all
spin the web of the shrew.

I ask you of this glyph 
on the walls as they
reveal the depth.

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