Folding away.

A lot of the time you're the warrior-king
But you're also the black and the white of the moon
Punching into the rafters
And making a new mind
From the shattered planks of many

I'd like to write a thousand words
A thousand metaphors
For your lovely white body
For the collapsible veins that make you up
The hackneyed mess that you are
That takes in the world and does something different
To me

But sometimes you're the mouse I made
The wandering gypsy-Jew
Harridan harpy singed-hairs all around your tarpaulin chest
And you scream your crystal death rattle
To the end of us both

And sometimes I can't reach you
Just like I'm trying to do
I'll tread the corners of my mind
The back alleys of my brain
And one day I hope to find you