I know only of the way it was read to me,
in droning whitewashed monotone.
The table of contents cracked
in six or seven places,
divisions widening with each new passage.
Somewhere, the message
struggles to keep its head above the water
forcing its way through
to the sullen core of the experience.
The water weighs on me tenaciously
as it adds to nothing but itself.
The message drowns despairing
as was foretold. And surely
the old heads atop the heap
will seek their advantage here,
as they always have done
with varying degrees of success and subtlety.
But now the years have stretched
their skin too thin to conceal
their weathered cranial bones,
and all can see finally, that
such bones are meant to be broken.