Dust blacks the tissued cloud that
once seemed snow like to the eye
and thrums into its equator
and lifts the wool up high.

And there we see truth.

Dust puffs at sunken warships
and raises them to the sun
that drank up all the pirate gold
and set the decks with rum.

And yet there is no youth.

-

Oh, bajeebus. 'Good' or 'bad', all will sour in the end.