Aspic Goo

I come with my senility in the cold of December
Listening to raindrops and whistling for the wind
I have become spineless, an aspic goo
Face plastered upon a limestone seawall
Nose, eyes and ears trickled like dripping clay
I talked to you with sticky, gooey throat
Pleading words loudly, unheeded and unheard
Like blustery gust on dried quivering twigs
Like a stray cat pussyfooting on bladed walks
Now a shape without form, a pallid tone
A portless odyssey, a motionless struggle

Charon met me at the banks of the river Styx
Crossing the stiles with ticket willingly paid
Think of me now as though not gone
But as a wretched and troubled soul
As a spineless man, an aspic goo