Thieving multitudes steal their glances,
the most cultivated
of my uncultured pearls;
each thing soon concludes they’ll hear answers
if they suture my words.
Stitching thickness baited
to switch this fate of circumstances,
each oyster-mouthed, faceless
shell binds his lips down with
what I’ve said, unsure how to say it.
Garlic-breathed torture curls
their tongues to supplant this
misfortune of disproportioned worlds;
could they relate to it,
they’d hate us Romantics
even more; Hearts among Spades play it.