Poems and Prose #98 - Miscreant

Derelicts, all,
they mill about,
enthralled,
regurgitating
rusty saws
as clarion calls,
beer suds sliding
off their claws,
hereafter on pause
from every
care and cause,
solipsistically
grunting ha-has
at every other's fall
and rise
and further fall,
standing crookedly
yet tall;
even more so
than gravity,
dallying by law.