the mystery f motion

piled high
the ballot
of faces
like melting marbles
left forlorn
by the oval cut soul

into the wound
it gets in
the grease
of sepsis
and it spreads
its spiderweb
through
 mildewed marrow

the cunning of a lie
is strong
our weak flesh
folds like a petal
before the unearthly chutzpah
of the sun king

but his early gains
seized in fever
are very slowly unwound
like drawing
a corkscrew thorn
from a wound

slowly learning
the truth
builds immunity
in a democracy