A Meandering Line of Thought

And this the King of Swords do cut so well
Might all I's and the tender flesh foresee
Beyond that bucolic aspect of dwell
Leave assured (and confederate banshee)

I know well the sound; lament sweeties make
Pulled asunder they cling to solution
Creaky Kafkaesque promises of wake
In brains ill-equipped for absolution.

True the worm eats as the earth devours
All that is inessential to the soul
Stripped bare I will glimmer joy in powers
Encrypt the reunion when swallowed coal!

Little self be not the melancholy
Player; dance about sans idle dolly.